1348 lines
75 KiB
Plaintext
1348 lines
75 KiB
Plaintext
====+========================+=====================+=================+==========
|
|
E | ________________ | ____________ | _________ |I.
|
|
L | \______ ______\ | / ________ \ | / _____ \ | C.
|
|
E | | | | | / \_/ | | / \_/ | S.
|
|
C | | | | | | | | < |
|
|
T | | | | | | | \ \______ |
|
|
R | | | | | | | \______ \ | #4
|
|
O | | | | | | | \ \ |
|
|
Z | | | | | | _ | _ > | |
|
|
I | ______| |______ | | \________/ \ | / \_____/ | |
|
|
N | \________________\ | \_____________/ | \__________/ |
|
|
E | Information | Communication | Supply |
|
|
====+========================+=====================+=================+==========
|
|
|
|
Information Communication Supply 04/20/93 Vol.1:Issue.4
|
|
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
|
|
|
|
E D I T O R S: Local Alias: Email: ICS Positions:
|
|
Daniel Frederick N/A N/A Corrections, Role Playing
|
|
Russell Hutchison -BurnouT STU524636420 Subscriptions, Editor
|
|
Benjamin Price -Beelzebub/B'bub STU406889075 Submissions, Final Opinion,
|
|
Letters Section
|
|
Luke Miller -Aminohead/DUB STU521532642 Subscriptions, Role Playing
|
|
Donald Sanders -Zorro ORG_ZINE Contributor
|
|
George Sibley -MACFAC FAC_SIBLEY Faculty Supervisor
|
|
Matthew Thyer -O O T L O STU523086351 Chief Editor
|
|
Deva Winblood -Metal Master ADP_DEVA Technical Director,WorldNet
|
|
Tour Guide, Tales of The
|
|
Unknown, Critical Editor
|
|
|
|
_____________________________________________________________________________
|
|
/ \
|
|
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
|
|
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
|
|
| topics that are important to us all as human beings. If you would like |
|
|
| to send in a submission please type it into an ASCII format and mail it |
|
|
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
|
|
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
|
|
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
|
|
| See the end of this issue for submission information. |
|
|
\_____________________________________________________________________________/
|
|
|
|
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
|
|
you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
|
|
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU.
|
|
|
|
BACK ISSUES: Back issues can be FTPed from UGLYMOUSE.CSS.ITD.UMICH.EDU
|
|
in the directory /pub/Zines/ICS. (check /pub/Politics/ICS also)
|
|
|
|
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
|
|
views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all
|
|
responsibilities for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating
|
|
copyright laws and protections.
|
|
|
|
|\__________________________________________________/|
|
|
| \ / |
|
|
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
|
|
| / \ |
|
|
| /________________________________________________\ |
|
|
|/ \|
|
|
| Included in the table of contents you will see some|
|
|
| generic symbols to help you in making your |
|
|
| decisions on whether an article is something that |
|
|
| may use ideas, and/or language that could be |
|
|
| offensive to some. S = Sexual Content |
|
|
| AL = Adult Language V = Violence O = Opinions |
|
|
|____________________________________________________|
|
|
|
|
I. FIRST OPINION: SEASONS CHANGE: The Past and Future of ICS.
|
|
By Deva Winblood. This will answer some questions and also
|
|
inform our readers of some activities and plans for the future
|
|
of ICS.
|
|
II. CHALLENGE/INVITATION: For Creative And/Or Institutional Thinkers.
|
|
By George Sibley.
|
|
III. WORLDNET TOUR GUIDE: Obtaining Free Electronic Music.
|
|
By Deva Winblood. Talks about MODs, where they can be found,
|
|
what you need to play them, and who writes them.
|
|
IV. TALES OF THE UNKNOWN #4: By George Sibley.
|
|
No one ever thought a calendar could be so mystical.
|
|
V. MY GOD, WHY HATH THOU FORSAKEN ME?: Part I of a story to be
|
|
continued in Issue #5 by Ted Sanders. (AL,V)
|
|
VI. THE RIGHT DECISION: A story by Catherine Murray.
|
|
This story deals with... Well, you'll see. It is a very good
|
|
story. Ben Price says so.
|
|
VII. IMPURE MATH: Submitted by Rodrigo de Almeida Siqueira. This
|
|
humorous tale was submitted by a man of vast interests.
|
|
VIII.MARTIANS ARE COMING pt. 2: A story continuation of the first
|
|
part featured in ICS Issue #3. By Russell Hutchison.
|
|
IX. RUSH: A story by Daniel Frederick. This story is definitely not
|
|
intended for Arachnophobes. (V)
|
|
X. CHAOTICON II Announcement: A public service announcement.
|
|
XI. TOME OF VAST KNOWLEDGE Announcement: A public service announcement.
|
|
XII. FINAL OPINION: By Benjamin Price. In this episode Ben is complaining
|
|
about the weather and possibly saying farewell.
|
|
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
_____________________________
|
|
/ FIRST OPINION \
|
|
_________________________________
|
|
/ S E A S O N S C H A N G E: \
|
|
| The Past and Future of ICS |
|
|
| By |
|
|
| Deva Winblood |
|
|
\_________________________________/
|
|
___
|
|
(_ _)
|
|
( )
|
|
(___)nformation, Communication, Supply now consists of four issues.
|
|
These issues were produced by staff members at Western State College in
|
|
Gunnison, Colorado, USA. The articles, stories, and announcements were
|
|
submitted by creative people around the world and ICS staff members.
|
|
---
|
|
The seasons have changed and so this college semester nears its
|
|
end leaving many of us wondering exactly what will happen with ICS. The
|
|
status of ICS is improving and many things are in the works.
|
|
ICS staff members Matt Thyer, Deva Winblood, Russell Hutchison,
|
|
and supervisor George Sibley met with the Arts and Humanities committee
|
|
of Western State College to discuss the future of ICS. The committee was
|
|
enthusiastic about our efforts and dreams. They asked us to draft up a
|
|
constitution so that we too may sit on the committee. This indicates that
|
|
ICS will be around even after the original staff members are gone.
|
|
Those that will be leaving our staff have stated that they will
|
|
continue to submit articles for future issues. They are dedicated to our
|
|
goals.
|
|
The summer (USA) issues of ICS will be created by staff members that
|
|
are available. Due to the decrease in size of the staff during this season
|
|
issues will only be released when enough material is gathered. This material
|
|
will take awhile to compile, so we may send out smaller sections of the issue
|
|
more often (as our survey indicates people prefer), and compile a larger issue
|
|
which will consist of these sections. The larger issue would then be stored
|
|
at the archive site at UGLYMOUSE as a complete issue.
|
|
To aid us in creating the summer issues we cannot stress how
|
|
important it is for people to send us submissions. If we do not receive
|
|
enough submissions it will take us longer to compile summer issues. So,
|
|
send us polished articles, poems, stories, et cetera that you feel other ICS
|
|
readers (worldwide) would like to read.
|
|
The survey indicates that there is a strong interest in the
|
|
WorldNet Tour Guide section. This section will be continued as accurate
|
|
research is completed. The summer WNTG sections will cover FREENETs,
|
|
GOPHER, popular ftp sites, and other informative topics. Any contributions
|
|
suitable for the WorldNet Tour Guide section are highly encouraged.
|
|
ICS was designed to be something useful for as wide a group of
|
|
people as we could encompass. The contents are generally creative in an
|
|
attempt to balance out the mass of technical journals available through
|
|
WorldNet. The Electrozine is the first step in a series of steps that
|
|
the ICS staff has planned.
|
|
ICS is considering creating MAC, MSDOS, AMIGA, et cetera versions of
|
|
ICS available in the future. These versions would be in platform specific
|
|
formats that allow professional quality page layout. This will probably
|
|
be tested in the fall. Anyone interested in this please contact us
|
|
so that we can determine whether the interest is actually there for such
|
|
a product. Again, this would be free of charge (unless shipped on a floppy
|
|
disk in which case it would be the price of the disk and shipping).
|
|
---
|
|
The summer is nearing at many campuses and some of our readers
|
|
may be isolated from email for the season. Feel free to contact us and
|
|
inform us to cancel your subscription. We are expecting this will be
|
|
necessary for some people. If you are one of these people then just
|
|
send us a message and we hope to get a letter from you in the fall asking
|
|
for subscription renewal.
|
|
---
|
|
Keep reading and send us something if you have the time.
|
|
- Deva Winblood, ICS Technical Director
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
________________________________________________
|
|
/ \
|
|
/ CHALLENGE/INVITATION \
|
|
\ FOR CREATIVE AND/OR INSTITUTIONAL THINKERS /
|
|
\ By George Sibley /
|
|
\______________________________________________/
|
|
|
|
"Cyberland" today is a lot like the Old West was 150 years ago.
|
|
Settlers coming into the West believed they were coming into an open
|
|
and empty land where they could "live free"--whatever that meant to
|
|
them. What they actually found, however, when they began to experiment
|
|
with their freedom, was that a lot of "larger-than-life" entities had
|
|
in fact gotten there first: networks of finance and transportation as
|
|
large and indifferent as Nature itself, webs of law and regulation
|
|
written far from the realities of the West--in essence, a lot of old
|
|
institutions that were reproducing themselves in the West--institutions
|
|
whose "bottom lines" had little to with individual freedom.
|
|
The seemingly new and unexplored realms opened up by computers
|
|
present the same kind of dilemma to the individual: one the one hand,
|
|
here are all these vast new creative possibilities; but on the other
|
|
hand, most of these "possibilities" (especially the most interesting
|
|
one, Cyberland's equivalent of the Old West's waterholes and
|
|
bottomlands) are owned by institutions--the entities most able to
|
|
afford them--and the institutions are harnessing most of that potential
|
|
to typical institutional tasks.
|
|
In Cyberland as in the Old West, this has resulted in a new outbreak
|
|
of one of the oldest and most endemic of cultural problems: the
|
|
tension between the creative individual and the institutions that keep
|
|
lit the lamps of tradition. The old story of Cain and Abel? Were we
|
|
telling it today in Cyberland, Cain would be a hacker and Abel an
|
|
honest and diligent career bureaucrat trying to keep a college or a
|
|
company or the Defense Department on orderly.
|
|
From the rational perspective that so seldom prevails in human
|
|
culture, this tension seems unfortunate. History and common sense both
|
|
show that survival--for institutions and individuals as well as
|
|
species--depends on ability to adapt, which means that institutions
|
|
always need some creative individuals who are thinking "outside the
|
|
envelope." And however much they may deny it, creative individuals
|
|
need institutions, if only to produce and assemble their creations.
|
|
That tidy rationality breaks down, however, in the mutual contempt
|
|
that each faction holds for the other: creative individuals consider
|
|
institutional managers to be stodgy, unimaginative, anal-retentive,
|
|
control-hungry dullards; while institutional managers consider
|
|
creative individuals to be undependable, untrustable, irresponsible,
|
|
undermining jokers and saboteurs. And in the atmosphere of mutual
|
|
tension, these gross generalizations too often become self-fulfilling
|
|
prophecies, as each side seems to go out of its way to fulfill the
|
|
worst expectations of "the enemy."
|
|
|
|
Does it have to be this way? We want to devote part of this summer's
|
|
issues of the Electrozine to an exploration of alternatives to this
|
|
too-old and too-tired pattern. It has been observed that the more
|
|
advanced a technology gets, the more vulnerable it becomes to the
|
|
alienated creative individual, so Cyberland may still be up for grabs
|
|
in ways that the Old West never was; accommodating (rather than trying
|
|
to control) the creative individual may be institutionally desirable
|
|
for the short-term as well as the long-term.
|
|
What we are looking for, then, is your creative and/or institutional
|
|
thinking for a dialogue on this issue. This thinking can be in the
|
|
form of essays, stories, allegories, professorial pedantry, poetry,
|
|
role games, whatever your medium. Let us all see if we can't do
|
|
something with this splendid mental space besides just recreating a
|
|
past grounded in mutual mistrust and antagonism. Mail your thoughts
|
|
to ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU--and let us know whether you want your name
|
|
left off to protect you from the guilty.
|
|
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
_________________________________
|
|
/ W o r l d N e t T o u r \
|
|
/ G u i d e #3 \
|
|
/ \
|
|
\ By /
|
|
\ Deva Winblood /
|
|
\>-------------------------------</
|
|
\ Obtaining Free Electronic /
|
|
\ Music /
|
|
\___________________________/
|
|
|
|
___
|
|
(_ _)
|
|
(_)his edition of the WorldNet Tour Guide will describe the growing
|
|
collections of electronic music, where to obtain it, and what programs
|
|
can be used on various computer platforms to play the songs back.
|
|
---
|
|
Most people that have obtained information from sites on the
|
|
WorldNet have gathered programs, documents, or images. What most people
|
|
have not obtained are files containing Electronic Music.
|
|
Electronic Music is rapidly becoming more popular on WorldNet.
|
|
People upload music that has been written by themselves or friends. These
|
|
songs are usually written on Commodore Amigas, Atari STs, or MS-DOS
|
|
machines. Then other people download them to their computer to listen.
|
|
The most common form of musical interchange seems to be that
|
|
which is referred to as a MOD. This is a shortening of the original
|
|
Atari Sound Tracker MOD which is referred to as ST-MOD. This format has
|
|
spread to other platforms and many people are expressing their creativity
|
|
by writing their own music using their computer.
|
|
To write this music some people use Musical Instrument Digital
|
|
Interface(MIDI) systems while others just enter it using their computer
|
|
keyboard. This music often consists of many digitized instruments and
|
|
sounds. The price of sound digitizers has dropped to reasonable prices
|
|
and this has caused a mass creation of songs with totally unique
|
|
digitized sounds.
|
|
The field of electronic music on the WorldNet is especially
|
|
active with users of Commodore Business Machine's Amiga computer line,
|
|
and ATARI's ST and FALCON line. There are many people from each of
|
|
these platforms that contribute music.
|
|
At the FTP site WUARCHIVE.WUSTL.EDU there are usually several
|
|
MODs per week uploaded into the Amiga section of the ARCHIVE. These
|
|
can be found in two directories at this site.
|
|
|
|
/pub/systems/amiga/incoming/mods
|
|
|
|
or
|
|
|
|
/pub/systems/amiga/audio
|
|
|
|
There are also a few composers that are extremely popular
|
|
MOD writers. One such composer goes by the name U4ia of MegaWatts
|
|
and is usually given a directory devoted totally to his MODs. There
|
|
is such a directory at WUARCHIVE.WUSTL.EDU.
|
|
|
|
To FTP a MOD change into the directory of the MOD file before
|
|
using the GET command. Make sure the TYPE is set to I for binary
|
|
transmission. Then issue the GET command.
|
|
(for FTP instructions please refer to WNTG in ICS Issue #2)
|
|
|
|
NOTICE: There are some formats that are platform specific. One such
|
|
format is popular on the Amiga is called MED. Unless you own and
|
|
Amiga it is recommended that you stick with the MOD files. However,
|
|
if you have an Amiga then MED refers to a shareware program called
|
|
MED3.22. This format can also be played by various Amiga shareware
|
|
programs.
|
|
|
|
MOD PLAYERS FOR VARIOUS PLATFORMS
|
|
---------------------------------
|
|
|
|
PLATFORM | Program Name | If known, Where can it be found.
|
|
============|=======================|======================================
|
|
AMIGA |EDPLAYER | WUARCHIVE.WUSTL.EDU
|
|
|MED3.22 | WUARCHIVE.WUSTL.EDU
|
|
|PROTRACKER | WUARCHIVE.WUSTL.EDU
|
|
|(many more) |
|
|
MS-DOS |SOUND TRACKER (?) |
|
|
MACINTOSH |SOUND TRACKER |
|
|
ATARI |SOUND TRACKER |
|
|
==========================================================================
|
|
|
|
The above list is by no means complete. It is primarily Amiga
|
|
oriented because that is the platform that the author uses.
|
|
|
|
If you have not taken the time to download and listen to a MOD before,
|
|
then you should try at least a few of them. It is free music and it
|
|
allows people to have their creativity shared around the world.
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
%%%%
|
|
%%%%% ____________________________
|
|
%%%%%% / TALES OF THE UNKNOWN \
|
|
%%%%% | #4 |
|
|
%%%% | |
|
|
## | By George Sibley |
|
|
## \____________________________/
|
|
##\
|
|
One day in late June of 1956, when I was fifteen or so,
|
|
growing up in a little industrial town in Western Pennsylvania,
|
|
my mother sent me down the hill to the dairy store--what we call
|
|
"convenience stores" today--for a loaf of bread or something.
|
|
|
|
One the way home, a little square of paper blew across the
|
|
street and stopped faceup on the pavement in front of me; it was
|
|
a calendar page--the kind from a single-day desk calendar. And I
|
|
realized, to my somewhat surprise, that it was the page from my
|
|
birthday, which had been more than a month before.
|
|
|
|
I looked around, assuming there must be a lot of calendar
|
|
pages blowing around, but there were no others in sight--just the
|
|
one from my birthday, which had blown out of nowhere to confront
|
|
me on the sidewalk. What a coincidence, I thought, and picked it
|
|
up and took it home, where I showed it to my mother.
|
|
|
|
She looked at it--then looked again, and her face went a
|
|
little white. "Look at the YEAR!" she said.
|
|
|
|
I looked: this was not the calendar page from May 9, 1956;
|
|
it was the calendar page from May 9, 1941--the actual day of my
|
|
birth in that town. Somewhere in that town, that day, a few
|
|
hours after my birth, someone had gotten up, or gone to work, and
|
|
torn that sheet off their calendar. Fifteen years later, it had
|
|
blown into my path out of--the unknown.
|
|
|
|
I've kept that calendar page in a special book, with the
|
|
information about the event written on the back of it. Sometimes
|
|
I just happen across it when looking for something else. But
|
|
other times--when life is seeming small, predictable, ordinary--
|
|
I seek it out on purpose, not sure those times that I will
|
|
actually find it: I continue to suspect that someday it will
|
|
disappear from my life as mysteriously as it came--my "letter
|
|
from the unknown," whose message I still don't understand.
|
|
Except as it says that life is perhaps larger, less predictable
|
|
and more interesting than it usually seems.
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
_____________________________________________
|
|
\ /
|
|
\ MY GOD, WHY HATH THOU FORSAKEN ME? /
|
|
\ /
|
|
\ BY /
|
|
\ /
|
|
\ Ted Sanders /
|
|
\__________/\/\___/\/\__________/
|
|
|
|
|
|
Stuart Terrill's suit fit like a glove. The helmet had a firm
|
|
seal, to not let any of the vacuum in. The dull grey of the gloves
|
|
and the boots aided in the atmosphere of Delta-9. The chest
|
|
plate was also a dull grey, but with a small red patch that said, I.S.A.R.A.
|
|
(Interplanetary Society of Atmospheric Research Association.) Stuart's
|
|
company. The company that supported poor little Capt. Stuart Terrill
|
|
through two wives (going on three), many affairs, several drunken
|
|
sprees, and always helped him keep his good standing among the
|
|
International Pentecostal Church of Linear Saints.
|
|
"Captain, you are now crossing the 44th parallel; advice is that
|
|
you return to base company," said the small black microphone in
|
|
Terrill's helmet. It was the sound of Sergeant Bradkin's raspy
|
|
little Jewish voice. Bradkin was overweight, rarely promoted in the
|
|
I.S.A.R.A. and had no desire to be in the International Pentecostal
|
|
Church. He was a nothing! Probably not even good enough to respond to.
|
|
"Bradkins! I will go where I want, when I want, and how I want!
|
|
Is that clear!" shrieked Terrill.
|
|
"Yes sir, but I was just thinking you might be cautious ..."
|
|
whispered Bradkins.
|
|
"Shut up! You stupid little kike!" screamed Terrill.
|
|
|
|
Silence filled the helmet as Terrill trotted along at
|
|
Zero-gravity.
|
|
|
|
Terrill's belligerence brought him to the furthest end of
|
|
Delta-9's super crater. Uncharted, and hostile territory. Terrill had
|
|
heard the stories of raiders that would hold mining explorers as
|
|
hostages for weeks, but the abductees weren't anything. Dreggs pulled off
|
|
of the Central or Southern United States on Earth, whose only thoughts
|
|
were of drinking alcohol and screwing dregg-like women. Those types never
|
|
amounted to much, and neither would their children.
|
|
The terrain suddenly began to get harder to travel in. Even at
|
|
Zero-G travel was not easy. Terrill began to hurdle rock after rock,
|
|
some 5 feet tall. Then the big ones, almost 15 feet tall. No way around,
|
|
just over.
|
|
Memories flooded Terrill's mind of Julie. The time spent
|
|
on New Bermuda, sipping marguerites at lunch, a shot of tequila for
|
|
mid-afternoon pick-me-ups, And double Vodkas for the dancing at night.
|
|
Oh God was Julie beautiful! That tight silver lace she wore for
|
|
dancing made the entire male population of the bar drool. The only
|
|
problem was that Stuart owned her. She was his, and he was Julie's. Until
|
|
Julie and Stuart had a fight, and Julie ran off with the
|
|
guy that looked exactly like the Marlboro man. Damn, did he have things
|
|
going for him! Good looks, a big bank account, and he was ordained by
|
|
the Pentecostal church.
|
|
While Julie and Stuart were in New Bermuda experimenting with
|
|
new ways to get tans, Stuart remembered that he was responsible, and
|
|
ditching his wife and children did not show it. Tara, Stuart's current wife,
|
|
struggled to make payments on bills. She had no way of paying
|
|
a huge rent, and feeding two children. Stuart thought for a second...
|
|
"What if I didn't go to Bermuda with Julie? What if I would
|
|
have stayed and helped my family survive? God forgives me, doesn't he?
|
|
I'm sure he does; I belong to the church!"
|
|
God had to forgive Stuart, because as soon as he won big at the
|
|
black jack table, he donated it all to Reverend Racino and his band of
|
|
needy people. Damn, who are the needy people?
|
|
Stuart returned from his daze, as the records on the
|
|
Environmental Aptitude Act ran across the screen. It was simple enough,
|
|
but Stuart wanted to make sure that he was right. The bright yellowish haze of
|
|
the letters made Stuart feel comfortable. Although it took approximately
|
|
120 footpounds of pressure to move, Stuart felt comfortable.
|
|
"...in accordance with all spatial and planetary settings, any
|
|
single explorer who encounters new mineral formations, atmospheric
|
|
aptitude readings, or other precious commodities is entitled to full
|
|
rights under the Interspacial Aptitude Act of 2036."
|
|
The climate was clear and comfortable. It made Stuart's trip that
|
|
much easier. Anything and Anyone he found belonged to him. Yes, anyone!
|
|
The Interspatial Aptitude Act had only been out for 20 years and many
|
|
people had owned their own species! The drugged-out Interplanetary
|
|
Board of Entrepreneurial endeavors, had said that a species can be owned by an
|
|
explorer. The planets of the Delta sector and everywhere in the universe were
|
|
up for grabs.
|
|
Stuart never thought of it as a sin. Stuart just thought that if
|
|
he found a new species, first he would expose them to the light, the
|
|
International Pentecostal Church; then all born agains would remember Stuart
|
|
forever. Next, he would probably teach them how to do tricks, something
|
|
interesting that people or animals on earth could not do. Then he would
|
|
enjoy the money as it came pouring in. I mean if you have an investment
|
|
in a species, it's only fair that you use it!
|
|
The only problem was that Delta-9 was quite hostile, and raiders
|
|
were not nice, but Terrill had God on his side! Every day about this
|
|
time, Terrill would say a prayer for the almighty:
|
|
"Dear Lord, Please grant me serenity in my path. Justice in my
|
|
ways, and patience in my mind. A-men."
|
|
Sometimes Terrill would whisper at the end...
|
|
"And more money on my VISTA account!"
|
|
|
|
The journey had now become tedious because of the terrain.
|
|
Giant boulders piled one on top of the other made travel difficult.
|
|
Terrill was now on the 45th parallel and in theory, Stuart's theory, the
|
|
best site for observation was the 46th parallel.
|
|
|
|
"Terrill, please come back! You're in very hostile territory and..."
|
|
|
|
"Listen asshole! I'm going to the 46th and you or your mama..."
|
|
|
|
A hideous shriek stretched across the airwaves, and Bradkins
|
|
knew there was trouble, but no help was available. Maybe Terrill was
|
|
pulling another one of his incredibly juvenile pranks.
|
|
|
|
"Terrill come in! Your fading, Terrill! Terrill! I'm about to
|
|
loose contact with you! If this is another one of your stupid jokes!"
|
|
|
|
[TO BE CONTINUED]
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
|
|
______________________
|
|
/ THE RIGHT DECISION \
|
|
____________/ \______________
|
|
/ By \
|
|
\____________ ______________/
|
|
\ Catherine Murray /
|
|
\______________________/
|
|
|
|
She was a living legend at Calderburn High. I was once asked,
|
|
"What would Stella Hunter score in a math test out of thirty?"
|
|
"Thirty," I replied.
|
|
"Wrong," the kid who'd asked me smirked, "Thirty-five!"
|
|
There were fifteen hundred pupils in our school and so it was not
|
|
surprising that I managed to be there two years before
|
|
encountering Stella in person, although she was often pointed out
|
|
to me. Tall, slim and very, very pretty, she was reputedly
|
|
brilliant at every subject except art, but that hardly mattered
|
|
considering her achievements elsewhere. If this hadn't been
|
|
enough to ensure that she was universally detested, the arrogant
|
|
tilt of her head and her aloof manner would have given us
|
|
sufficient reason.
|
|
I suppose that I'd never have got to know Stella if I hadn't
|
|
opted to take a physics class and I certainly wouldn't have
|
|
chosen to study physics were it not that I desperately wanted to
|
|
become a doctor. I was told that I couldn't study medicine
|
|
unless I first subjected myself to three years of Newton's laws
|
|
of motion and similar mental gymnastics. This was rather hard
|
|
since biology seemed a much more sensible and interesting topic
|
|
of study for would-be doctors. All of my friends had chosen
|
|
biology as their science option, hoping that they would find
|
|
themselves being taught by Mr. Collison who was indisputably
|
|
Calderburn's best-looking male teacher. On the first day of term
|
|
I paused outside Room 325 on the physics corridor and reflected
|
|
that their hour of class was probably going to be a lot more
|
|
interesting than mine.
|
|
I was early - I like to have time to take in a new situation -
|
|
and there were only four other people in the classroom. At the
|
|
back bench, three weedy boys were huddled over a computing
|
|
magazine arguing about the relative merits of digital and
|
|
analogue technology. I hoped that they weren't typical examples
|
|
of the type of boy who chooses physics. By the front bench, sat
|
|
Stella Hunter, legs crossed, arms clasped and glazed eyes gazing
|
|
into the future.
|
|
I had always been curious about this enigmatic beauty and,
|
|
scarcely pausing to consider the social stigma attached to being
|
|
friendly to Stella or the high risk I ran of rejection by her, I
|
|
headed for the front bench.
|
|
"Hi, I'm Anne Harper," I said.
|
|
Her eyes jerked back to the present and she turned them on me.
|
|
A long time passed before she finally said, favouring me with
|
|
the ghost of a smile, "Hi, I'm Stella Hunter."
|
|
The room was filling up with more greasy-haired boys. "It
|
|
looks like we might be the only girls in this class," I said as I
|
|
sat down, "Why are you doing physics?"
|
|
"I want to become an astronomer."
|
|
I tried to think of an intelligent comment. "Is it astronomers
|
|
who make up the horoscopes?"
|
|
"No, they're astrologers. What they do is totally
|
|
unscientific and has nothing to do with modern astronomy," she
|
|
said contemptuously. "Everybody should know that."
|
|
Obviously I was not included in everybody but I pursued the
|
|
subject, "So why do you want to become an astronomer?"
|
|
"My father's an astronomer. He used to tell me bedtime
|
|
stories about the lives of stars. He's the head of the Lowell
|
|
radio observatory," she added proudly.
|
|
"Where's that?"
|
|
"You must have seen the big, white dishes that you pass as you
|
|
head out towards the coast."
|
|
"I've always wondered what they were for. My parents argue
|
|
about whether they're part of an early warning system or
|
|
something to do with satellite T.V. But I thought that
|
|
astronomers used telescopes."
|
|
"It's a telescope for radio waves instead of light. Look, the
|
|
teacher's here. If you want to see around the observatory, I'm
|
|
going up there by bus straight after school. My father will be
|
|
there. He's brilliant at explaining things."
|
|
I was stunned. Stella had made what could only be classified
|
|
as a friendly gesture. Despite her intimidating stare, I began
|
|
to wonder if our automatic rejection of her was a little
|
|
presumptuous. All the same, I knew that I would probably
|
|
decline, cringing at the thought of the comments which would be
|
|
directed at me if I walked out of school with Stella.
|
|
"Do you want to come?" she asked after our hour of physics was
|
|
over and there was something wistful about her invitation as if
|
|
she expected me to refuse. Perhaps it was this which persuaded
|
|
me to accept and she looked pleasantly surprised as if someone
|
|
had just handed her flowers. It occurred to me for the first
|
|
time that even someone as brilliant as Stella might not be
|
|
entirely self-sufficient.
|
|
We joined the crowds heading towards the school gates and
|
|
Stella seemed to attract comments as a magnet attracts iron
|
|
filings.
|
|
"Hey Stella, tell me how far it is to Pluto."
|
|
"Where did you get these shoes, Stella? Did they belong to
|
|
your Granny?"
|
|
A boy, pushed by his mates, hurtled into Stella's side.
|
|
"Sorry, Stella," he shouted, "It was an accident."
|
|
Girls whispered and giggled, shooting malicious glances in our
|
|
direction. I saw my group of friends and sincerely hoped that no
|
|
one realized I was with Stella. Through all this, she never
|
|
slowed in her decisive progress towards the gate, her face
|
|
impassive.
|
|
We sat down in the bus and she seemed to relax. Smiling
|
|
rather half-heartedly, she said, "My mother thinks I shouldn't
|
|
ignore them but I really can't be bothered talking to people like
|
|
that."
|
|
"Is your mother an astronomer?"
|
|
"No, she's a science correspondent. Or at least she was. She
|
|
left us last year and is wandering round the world writing travel
|
|
articles for different magazines. She writes lovely letters but
|
|
it's not the same."
|
|
"I can't imagine my parents ever splitting up."
|
|
"That's what I thought about my parents before it happened but
|
|
I think I'm beginning to see why."
|
|
I widened my eyes in curious sympathy but Stella simply said,
|
|
"The next stop is ours."
|
|
There was a rather long walk from the bus stop to a flat field
|
|
of white dishes all pointed heavenwards.
|
|
"Don't worry. My father will give us a lift back," Stella
|
|
said leading the way towards a long, white building. "We're
|
|
going to the control room," she explained. "That's where he's
|
|
most likely to be."
|
|
We entered a windowless room and my eyes quickly took in a
|
|
console of switches and electronic displays. A printer was
|
|
screeching in one corner and a man was bending over the length of
|
|
the paper which it spat out. He straightened and turned glazed
|
|
eyes towards the door. His face was set in rigid, well-formed
|
|
lines and as his distant eyes focused on us, the lines bent
|
|
together. I noticed that his reddish-brown hair, receding and a
|
|
little grizzled, was exactly the same shade as Stella's.
|
|
"Stella, how many times have I told you to knock?"
|
|
"But you've never told me to knock."
|
|
"What are you doing here anyway?"
|
|
"I told you this morning that I was coming straight from
|
|
school to borrow that book from Boris. A friend's come with me.
|
|
This is Anne." she said pathetically.
|
|
"What right have you to bring your friends down here?" he
|
|
began in a loud voice and then, as abruptly as they had hardened,
|
|
the stern lines softened and his body slumped. There was no
|
|
harshness, perhaps there was even a huskiness in his voice as he
|
|
said, "I'm sorry, Stella. I'm glad your friend's here but next
|
|
time, knock."
|
|
We left the room and the door closed over on the screeching
|
|
printer.
|
|
"I don't understand. He's not usually like that but he's been
|
|
getting into weird moods since mother left. Even before then."
|
|
Stella's voice was high and thin as if she was on the verge of
|
|
tears.
|
|
I was out of my depth. The girl who reputedly had everything
|
|
and needed no one, the girl whom I and almost every other girl in
|
|
Calderburn envied for her brains and beauty, was revealing
|
|
herself as a hurting human being.
|
|
"What is the matter, Stella?" A tall young man had appeared.
|
|
He had curly blonde hair and small spectacles of the kind that
|
|
you look through when you're reading and look over when you're
|
|
talking to someone.
|
|
"It's just my father, Boris. He's in one of his strange
|
|
moods."
|
|
"Did you not see this sign?" Boris asked, pointing to a 'Do
|
|
not disturb' sign which dangled from the door handle, "At
|
|
certain times your father points the telescope towards Hercules
|
|
and becomes very annoyed if anyone disturbs him or competes for
|
|
his observing spot. We do not know what it is that he observes.
|
|
He keeps it very secret as if he does not trust his colleagues
|
|
not to talk about his research. But he is head of the
|
|
observatory. Who am I to tell him what to do? Come up for a
|
|
coffee and I will give you the book on superstring theories."
|
|
"Anne, this is Boris," Stella said as we climbed the stairs,
|
|
"He's from Germany and he came here a few months ago to do some
|
|
research for his Phd. Boris, this is Anne. I met her in my
|
|
physics class and she wants to see round the observatory."
|
|
"Ah, you are interested in astronomy, then."
|
|
"Well, I don't know much about it," I answered diplomatically.
|
|
"Never mind. You will after we have finished with you. But
|
|
the coffee first, I think."
|
|
Boris showed us into a tiny office on the first floor. As
|
|
well as a computer and shelves of books, it contained two desks.
|
|
The surface and floorspace around one was littered with
|
|
magazines, papers, an unwashed mug and a plate of crumbs. The
|
|
other contained a few neat piles of paper and a pen pot.
|
|
"I am the messy one," Boris said apologetically.
|
|
"You need a window open in here," Stella said, walking over
|
|
to it.
|
|
"Look. My father's leaving."
|
|
I joined her at the window in time to see Dr. Hunter lay down
|
|
a pile of papers in order to unlock his car door. We watched him
|
|
get in and go through the motions of starting the car. Stella
|
|
banged on the window. "Dad...Dad," she yelled but, wearing the
|
|
same glazed expression, he drove away.
|
|
"He's completely forgotten about me."
|
|
"It's not just you, Stella. I think he is preoccupied. He
|
|
has left his work behind," Boris said pointing to the pile of
|
|
papers which Dr. Hunter had left lying in the car park. The wind
|
|
was ruffling them and I could see that they were part of one long
|
|
computer printout, doubtless the one which he had been working on
|
|
when we disturbed him.
|
|
"We'll run down for them, Boris. Come on, Anne," Stella said
|
|
and I followed her downstairs. By the time we reached the
|
|
car-park, the wind had pulled apart a few metres of printout.
|
|
"At least it's one long piece of paper," I said. "If it was in
|
|
separate sheets, they'd have been everywhere by now."
|
|
Stella made no reply. She was examining the end of the
|
|
printout. I bent over her and saw that a graph ran the length of
|
|
the paper. Bumps of about the same height occurred at irregular
|
|
intervals. Fitting it in to what I knew, I thought that it
|
|
looked most like a cardiogram except that the 'heartbeats' were
|
|
not all the same length nor were they evenly spaced. Stella
|
|
seemed to understand them. "It's not a pulsar," she said.
|
|
"What's that," I asked.
|
|
"It's a small, dead star which regularly emits pulses of radio
|
|
signals. If this trace was from a pulsar, the spaces between the
|
|
bumps would all be about the same length."
|
|
We made our way back to Boris's office, and raised voices
|
|
greeted us as we approached the door. Opposite Boris was
|
|
standing a short, well-built man with receding black hair and
|
|
steel-rimmed sun-glasses.
|
|
"It's Dr. Belson - Boris's supervisor," Stella hissed. "They
|
|
don't get on and he hates the fact that Boris has to share an
|
|
office with him while the other wing is being re-wired."
|
|
"Let them starve," Dr. Belson snarled, flinging a newspaper at
|
|
Boris. "In my book, life's a rat-race. The ends justify the
|
|
means and those who're too weak to compete deserve to be left
|
|
behind."
|
|
He whirled round, "Oh, hello, Stella," he said quietly, "could
|
|
I see these papers?" His mouth was twisted into a smile but his
|
|
eyes were like shuttered windows.
|
|
"No, they're my father's," Stella said.
|
|
"I think I have a right to see them," Belson replied.
|
|
"You'll have to ask my father's permission. I can't give it."
|
|
"Since when did the head of a scientific establishment have
|
|
the right to pursue a policy of keeping his research from his
|
|
colleagues? Give them to me."
|
|
"I don't think he wants anyone to see them."
|
|
"You looked at them Stella. Don't pretend that you wouldn't
|
|
understand a radio trace."
|
|
Stella said nothing. Calderburn High had taught her well and
|
|
she turned on Dr. Belson the same contemptuous stare which she
|
|
usually reserved for its pupils. That same gaze had been turned
|
|
on me until she made the decision to trust that my friendly
|
|
manner wasn't entirely a farce to catch her off guard. For a
|
|
long moment their eyes met in a battle of wills until he turned
|
|
away and crashed through the door, slamming it behind him.
|
|
I looked over at Boris. The front page of the newspaper in
|
|
his hand showed a picture of the African famine. "He is behaving
|
|
disgracefully," Boris said. "He is angry that he does not get
|
|
promotion and he thinks that he could run the observatory better
|
|
than your father. But he has a point. I am not asking to see
|
|
the papers, Stella, but it is bad policy for your father to take
|
|
prime observing times and not explain why he needs them. Lately,
|
|
too, he has been forgetting quite important things and people
|
|
lose confidence in him as a leader. If he has made a discovery,
|
|
we must know. Tell him that, Stella."
|
|
"I will. My father may be behaving as if he's a candidate for
|
|
a place in a mental home but he's not going off his head.
|
|
There's a reason for this behaviour and I'm going to find out."
|
|
Stella's voice was thin and high again.
|
|
"It will help if you cry," Boris said, putting his arm around
|
|
her.
|
|
"I never cry," she said, shaking him off.
|
|
"I'll run you home. I don't think a tour around the
|
|
observatory is the best thing right now," Boris said, "and your
|
|
father will be worried about these papers. I'm sorry, Anne, that
|
|
you should come here to learn about astronomy and see all our
|
|
problems."
|
|
"That's alright. I've had an interesting afternoon," I
|
|
answered, not adding my thoughts, "More interesting than an
|
|
uneventful tour of the telescope." It was a revelation to me
|
|
that beneath her flawless image, Stella's life should be on
|
|
turmoil. I was determined that I would be one person in
|
|
Calderburn whom she could trust although I dreaded the thought of
|
|
swimming against the current of popular opinion.
|
|
We drove back to town in silence and Boris stopped the car
|
|
outside a large old, house in the most genteel part of the
|
|
suburbs.
|
|
"Okay," Boris said, "I'll run Anne home and maybe see you
|
|
tomorrow. You forgot the book. And good luck with your father,
|
|
Stella."
|
|
"Boris, I want you to come with me."
|
|
I felt invisible. Had they both forgotten that I was miles
|
|
from home and involved in this too?
|
|
Stella gave me a scrutinising stare, "Can I trust you?"
|
|
I hesitated. To agree meant associating myself with the most
|
|
unpopular girl in the school, albeit the most interesting person
|
|
I had ever encountered. "You can trust me," I said meeting her
|
|
gaze and in that moment I knew that I had turned out of the safe
|
|
highway through life and plunged blindly into far more dangerous
|
|
country. As we crunched up the gravel path, every step seemed to
|
|
confirm the irrevocability of my decision.
|
|
We entered the house and picked our way through a long hallway
|
|
obstructed with piles of scientific magazines and books. There
|
|
was a general air of dustiness and neglect. As I passed the
|
|
kitchen doorway, I saw dirty dishes stacked beside the sink and
|
|
contrasted it with our neat, little kitchen at home. Stella
|
|
knocked at a closed door, "Dad, it's me."
|
|
"Go away , Stella. I'm busy."
|
|
"I need to talk, Dad. Please."
|
|
"Okay. What is it ?" She pushed the door open into a room
|
|
lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. A long window
|
|
stood slightly open and green curtains fluttered in the breeze.
|
|
It was a room which ought to have been peaceful, a tranquil
|
|
retreat for clear thinking but it was more cluttered and chaotic
|
|
than the area around Boris's desk. A solid, wooden desk faced
|
|
the door and its owner was slumped behind it in an attitude of
|
|
despair. He straightened and turned blank eyes upon us as we
|
|
edged into the room.
|
|
"Dad," Stella said, holding out the printout. Dr. Hunter
|
|
leapt up like a man who has seen a vision and stretched out a
|
|
greedy hand.
|
|
Stella took a few steps back out of his reach, "I couldn't
|
|
help seeing it as I picked it up. It's not a pulsar. What is
|
|
it?"
|
|
"I can't tell anyone, Stella. I wish I could. Give me my
|
|
work," he held out his hand again but Stella kept the printout
|
|
behind her back.
|
|
"You must tell someone. People don't trust you anymore
|
|
because you don't trust them. Dr. Belson wanted to see the
|
|
observations."
|
|
"No," Dr. Hunter's face was pale, his eyes wide, "that man
|
|
would..."
|
|
"But I didn't let him see them." His face relaxed a little.
|
|
Stella went on in a voice that was breaking, "Dad, it's like
|
|
you're going crazy. You can't go on not telling anyone. You can
|
|
trust all of us. Please, I can't bear to see you like this."
|
|
Dr. Hunter dropped his head on the desk. Long moments passed
|
|
between the measured tick of a wall clock. When he lifted his
|
|
head, he wore a determined expression.
|
|
"Alright. If I must. If you won't trust me otherwise. But
|
|
you can't tell anybody. Maybe your friends had better go."
|
|
"No, let them stay. You can trust them, too. Unless," she
|
|
looked at Boris and I, "you'd rather not get involved."
|
|
Boris was quick to say, "I'm staying," and Stella flashed him
|
|
a quick smile.
|
|
"I'm not going either," I said, curious but a little
|
|
frightened.
|
|
"Open up the printout," Dr. Hunter said quite solemnly. "The
|
|
radio pulses which you see are coded messages from an
|
|
extra-terrestrial civilization."
|
|
The clock marked off seconds during which no-one spoke. I
|
|
looked at Stella to see if she was thinking what I was thinking -
|
|
that her father really had gone off his head.
|
|
It was Boris who broke the silence, "How can you be so sure,
|
|
Dr. Hunter?"
|
|
"I am absolutely certain. You will, of course, know of the
|
|
message sent out by the Arecibo radio telescope in 1974."
|
|
"Yes,"Boris said,"it was directed towards M13 and aimed at any
|
|
extra-terrestrial civilization which might be listening in."
|
|
"What's M13?" I asked, determined to follow this explanation.
|
|
"It sounds like a motorway."
|
|
"It's a group of stars so far away that the message will take
|
|
ten thousand years to reach it. But there are plenty of other
|
|
stars which it will have already passed along the way," Dr.
|
|
Hunter explained and went on. "This message was made up of one
|
|
thousand, six hundred and seventy-nine digital characters." He
|
|
looked at me. "When a radio pulse is transmitted, that
|
|
represents a one and when there is no pulse, that represents a
|
|
zero. Each of these is a character. It's a bit like Morse code
|
|
with ones and zeros instead of dots and dashes. Over a year ago,
|
|
I picked up a strange message coming from the direction of M13.
|
|
I knew immediately that it was not from a pulsar and wondered if
|
|
I was on the verge of some astronomical discovery. I never
|
|
considered that it might come from an alien civilization until I
|
|
realized that it contained one thousand,six hundred and
|
|
seventy-nine characters and that it had been transmitted on the
|
|
same radio wavelength as the one the Arecibo telescope used to
|
|
send its message. After that it was a simple matter to crack the
|
|
code."
|
|
"What did it say?"
|
|
"They sent information about themselves and their planet. I
|
|
began looking for another transmission and by luck or chance came
|
|
across a second, identical message thirty-five days, six hours
|
|
and five minutes after the first. After exactly the same time
|
|
period had again elapsed, I picked up a third message. It had
|
|
been encoded in the same way but it was different. They sent me
|
|
a crude diagram of what appears to be a spaceship. From that
|
|
message and those which followed at regular intervals, I know
|
|
that they have set out on a journey to Earth. They are presently
|
|
approaching us at speeds far greater than any we can produce in
|
|
our spacecraft. If my calculations are correct, they will arrive
|
|
in thirty years time."
|
|
"Why have you been so secretive?" Boris asked.
|
|
"This decision was not an easy one to make and I've suffered
|
|
all sorts of torments since then, wondering if I've done the
|
|
right thing. I thought of the mass hysteria which would result
|
|
if mankind knew that its cosmic isolation was to be broken by a
|
|
visit from aliens. People would feel threatened and I can
|
|
imagine that those with the mentality of Frank Belson would want
|
|
to exploit the aliens and their advanced technology in order to
|
|
further their own political ends. Others would find the
|
|
situation so threatening that they would blast them out of the
|
|
sky with a nuclear missile before they even got here. Who could
|
|
I trust? No, it is better that the aliens are allowed to arrive
|
|
in peace, unannounced. Otherwise I fear that they will not be
|
|
allowed to arrive at all."
|
|
"Couldn't you even trust, Mum?" Stella asked.
|
|
Dr. Hunter sighed. "I was on the point of telling her many
|
|
times but I was afraid that she would want everyone to know and
|
|
so I always stopped myself."
|
|
"How do you know that the aliens are not coming to harm us?"
|
|
Boris asked.
|
|
"I have no way of knowing. They may be peaceful beings who do
|
|
not even understand the concept of war. On the other hand ... I
|
|
am prepared to take that risk but others may not be."
|
|
"You are right," Boris said sadly, "We cannot risk what people
|
|
might do to them."
|
|
"It doesn't seem right," Stella said, "but I can't think of a
|
|
good reason to tell people."
|
|
Up until now, I had been silent and reluctant to speak but it
|
|
seemed to me that what these people had gained in astronomical
|
|
knowledge, had been compensated by a loss of common sense. I
|
|
took a deep breath and spoke, "I think you're all wrong and you
|
|
talk as if you're the only ones affected by this decision.
|
|
People will feel more threatened and will be more likely to act
|
|
stupidly if the aliens arrive suddenly. If we spot a UFO
|
|
hurtling towards Earth, we'll be more likely to destroy it than a
|
|
spaceship which we've been expecting for thirty years. If you
|
|
give people a chance to act responsibly, Dr. Hunter, I think that
|
|
they might decide to work together to prepare for this visit."
|
|
Stella looked at me with what was unmistakably admiration.
|
|
Boris said, "She's right. Apart from anything else, we must
|
|
reply to these messages. You can't do that, Dr. Hunter. You'll
|
|
have to contact the scientists at Arecibo."
|
|
"But I wouldn't know the right people to contact," Dr Hunter
|
|
protested. "It would be foolish to tell the wrong type of
|
|
person."
|
|
"Mum would know who to contact; she knows somebody in almost
|
|
every scientific field. She'll understand if you tell her what's
|
|
going on, Dad. I know she'll come back."
|
|
"Where is she now? Do you have the number of her hotel,
|
|
Stella?" Dr. Hunter asked, picking up the 'phone with trembling
|
|
hands.
|
|
"I think it's time for us to go, Anne," Boris said leading the
|
|
way out.
|
|
"Good-bye," Dr. Hunter said. "Tell no-one, yet. Stella's
|
|
mother will make sure that everyone knows soon enough."
|
|
"Bye," Stella yelled, "I'll see you both tomorrow."
|
|
I arrived home to face a row from my mother who was naturally
|
|
upset that I had disappeared without telling her. I might have
|
|
saved myself some verbal abuse had I been able to explain that my
|
|
few words of common sense had persuaded the head of the Lowell
|
|
Observatory to trust his fellow human beings with an important
|
|
decision, a decision which he couldn't make alone.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
______________________
|
|
/ IMPURE MATHEMATICS \
|
|
\ Submitted By /
|
|
\ Rodrigo de Almeida /
|
|
\ Siqueira /
|
|
\ ________ /
|
|
\ / \ /
|
|
\/ \/
|
|
|
|
|
|
Wherein it is related how that polygon of womanly virtue, young Polly Nomial
|
|
(our heroine) is accosted by that notorious villain Curly Pi, and factored
|
|
(oh, horror!!).
|
|
|
|
Once upon a time (1/t) pretty Polly Nomial was strolling across a field of
|
|
vectors when she came to the boundary of a singularly large matrix. Now,
|
|
Polly was convergent and her mother had made it an absolute condition that
|
|
she never enter such an array without her brackets on. Polly, however,
|
|
who had changed her variables that morning and was feeling particularly
|
|
badly behaved, ignored this condition on the basis that it was insufficient,
|
|
and made her way amongst the complex elements. Rows and columns closed in
|
|
from all sides. Tangents approached her surface. She became tensor and
|
|
tensor. Quite suddenly, two branches of a hyperbola touched her at a
|
|
singular point. She oscillated violently, lost all sense of directrix,
|
|
and went completely divergent. As she reached a turning point, she tripped
|
|
over a square root that was protruding from the ERF and plunged headlong
|
|
down a steep gradient. When she rounded off once more, she found herself
|
|
inverted, apparently alone, in a non-euclidean space.
|
|
|
|
She was being watched, however. That smooth operator, Curly Pi, was lurking
|
|
innerproduct. As his eyes devoured her curvilinear coordinates, a singular
|
|
expression crossed his face. He wondered, was she still convergent? He
|
|
decided to integrate improperly at once.
|
|
|
|
Hearing a common fraction behind her, Polly rotated and saw Curly Pi
|
|
approaching with his power series extrapolated. She could see at once by
|
|
his degenerate conic and dissipative terms that he was bent on no good.
|
|
|
|
"Arcsinh," she gasped.
|
|
"Ho, ho," he said. "What a symmetric little asymptote you have. I can see
|
|
your angles have a lot of secs."
|
|
"Oh sir," she protested, "keep away from me. I haven't got my brackets on."
|
|
"Calm yourself, my dear," said our suave operator. "Your fears are purely
|
|
imaginary."
|
|
"i,i," she thought,"perhaps he's not normal but homologous."
|
|
"What order are you?" the brute demanded.
|
|
"Seventeen," replied Polly.
|
|
Curly leered. " I suppose you've never been operated on."
|
|
|
|
"Of course not," Polly replied quite properly; "I'm absolutely convergent."
|
|
"Come, come," said Curly. "Let's off to a decimal place I know and I'll take
|
|
you to the limit."
|
|
"Never," gasped Polly.
|
|
"Abscissa," he swore, using the vilest oath he knew. His patience was gone.
|
|
|
|
Coshing her over the coefficient with a log until she was powerless, Curly
|
|
removed her discontinuities. He stared at her significant places and began
|
|
smoothing out her points of inflection. Poor Polly. The Algorithmic Method
|
|
was now her only hope. She felt his hand tending to her asymptotic limit.
|
|
Her convergence would soon be gone forever.
|
|
|
|
There was no mercy, for Curly was a heavyside operator. Curly's radius
|
|
squared itself; Polly's loci quivered. He integrated by parts. He integrated
|
|
by partial fractions. After he cofactored, he performed Runge-Cutta on her.
|
|
The complex beast even went all the way around and did a contour integration.
|
|
Curly went on operating until he had satisfied her hypothesis, then he
|
|
exponentiated and became completely orthogonal.
|
|
|
|
When Polly got home that night, her mother noticed that she was no longer
|
|
piecewise continuous, but had been truncated in several places. But it was
|
|
to late to differentiate now. As the months went by, Polly's denominator
|
|
increased monotonically. Finally she went to l'Hopital and generated a small
|
|
but pathological function which left surds all over the place and drove
|
|
Polly to deviation.
|
|
|
|
The moral of our sad story is this:
|
|
"If you want to keep your expressions convergent,
|
|
never allow them a single degree of freedom ..."
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
_____________ _______________
|
|
______________/ \__/ \_____________
|
|
/ ___________( The Martians Are Coming! )__________ \
|
|
/__/ \ / \__\
|
|
\ By Russell Hutchison /
|
|
\ __ /
|
|
\__________/ \____________/
|
|
|
|
(Continued from issue #3)
|
|
Frank altered his course and brought his crosshairs to bear on one of
|
|
the rapidly closing BAT fighters. He fired his particle cannon at the
|
|
range of five miles. His target disappeared in a golden flash, its
|
|
hydrogen/oxygen fuel detonated by the particle beam. Then, as if a
|
|
signal had been given, both swarms of fighters opened fire with
|
|
everything they had. The space around Frank filled with orange and gold
|
|
explosions, as hundreds of fighter-to-fighter missiles traced glowing
|
|
paths between the two forces. It looked like a thousand glowing
|
|
spiderwebs had sprung to life amidst a sea of colored flash bulbs.
|
|
A cluster of missiles drove towards Frank. He uttered a quick curse,
|
|
pushed his control stick forward and to the right and launched a flare
|
|
to distract as many heat seekers as possible. Three streaks of light
|
|
burned paths after the flare, six wove an irradecent pattern around
|
|
Franks ANGEL, the last struck home. The ANGEL rocked violently, the
|
|
sound of the explosion deafened him. The breath was forced from his
|
|
lungs as Frank was thrown wildly into the restraining straps, snapping
|
|
his head forward. He could taste bitter bile mixed with blood. His
|
|
vision blurred momentarily and when it cleared he was in a fast, spinning
|
|
dive towards Earth through a chaotic melee of twisting dogfights and
|
|
flashing missiles. Frank gasped for breath and pulled his fighter out
|
|
of its plummeting dive and redirected it towards the heavy cruisers.
|
|
scanning the scene he found himself twenty miles from the nearest fighter
|
|
combat. His H.U.D. labeled both left wing lasers as destroyed, he had
|
|
taken no critical damage.
|
|
Frank could here his name being called through the ringing in his
|
|
ears. The voice was Ricks.
|
|
"...Frank! Are you still conscious? Come on, the H.U.D. says your
|
|
not atoms yet. Where are you?"
|
|
"Stop bitching, my head hurts enough already. I lost some
|
|
elevation and lasers, though. Hold on a sec'. My tracking beacon is
|
|
out, too. I'll find you. Highlight wingman," Frank spoke to the H.U.D.
|
|
then looked around until he saw the laser enhanced dot on the inside of
|
|
his canopy that was his wingman. Rich was halfway between the fighter
|
|
combat and the heavy cruisers. Behind Rick, Frank could see the huge
|
|
delta-winged shape of a fighter carrier cutting its way through
|
|
the BAT fighters.
|
|
"I see you. Be there in fifteen seconds."
|
|
Frank directed his fighter onto a course that would link him up
|
|
with his wingman, three miles from the heavy cruisers.
|
|
Five seconds later the left side if the fighter carrier exploded in
|
|
a withering attack of coilgun rounds from two of the EDF destroyers.
|
|
The Vengeance and a Martian frigate fired at the destroyers to draw their
|
|
fire away from the crippled carrier. The hail of missiles and coilgun
|
|
rounds blasted one of the destroyers into a shattered metal frame
|
|
that exploded into a thousand fragments, the other escaped major damage.
|
|
The carrier was turning to make a withdrawal from the fight when a single
|
|
coilgun round from one of the heavy cruisers obliterated the wounded
|
|
vessel before it completed the turn.
|
|
Frank rejoined Rick and began heading for the furthest heavy
|
|
cruiser. The closer one, the one that had destroyed the fighter
|
|
carrier, was being cut to pieces by all five Martian heavy cruisers.
|
|
No return shots had been fired in ten seconds, but the onslaught
|
|
continued. Finally it split in two and the fission reactor consumed it
|
|
in a miniature sun.
|
|
Frank and Rick fell in behind another pair of ANGELs that had also
|
|
broken away from the massive fighter melee. The quartet of fighters
|
|
drove head on at the last the last Earth heavy cruiser to strafe it from
|
|
one end to the other. Before the fighters had fired a shot two huge
|
|
missiles launched from the heavy cruiser and smashed into the first pair
|
|
of ANGELs. Their explosion showered Frank, who was directly behind them,
|
|
with huge pieces of debris. It sounded to Frank like he was flying
|
|
through a hail storm and he had to fight for control. When he had
|
|
steadied his ship Frank was already flying past the engines of the
|
|
heavy cruiser. He banked his fighter down and to the left to come around
|
|
for another pass, Rick right on his tail. As he did so Frank found
|
|
himself flying straight towards the thrusters of the three remaining
|
|
destroyers. The destroyers were making mince meat out of one of the
|
|
Martian heavy cruisers and Frank noticed that the Earth Defense Fleet
|
|
was missing another one of its frigates. Given the perfection of the
|
|
shot at the closest destroyer Frank didn't hesitate. From two miles
|
|
away he fired the hyper-velocity missile attached to the bottom of his
|
|
ANGEL. The fighter sized missile flared to life, leaping away from the
|
|
ship it had been attached to. Frank banked steeply down and slightly to
|
|
the left to get a good view of the missiles flight. Like an arrow of
|
|
light the missile closed on its target. Lancing right down the center
|
|
of one of the destroyers drive engines, the missile exploded with deadly
|
|
force. The protective metal skirt of the engine ripped apart, light
|
|
blazing through the cracks. Then the back half of the destroyer blew apart
|
|
followed rapidly by the rest of the vessel.
|
|
"Yeah, Frank! Beauty shot!" Rick yelled.
|
|
"And the crowd goes wild," Frank added, a massive grin splitting his
|
|
face.
|
|
"Frank Smith, you just won the Martian lottery, what are you going
|
|
to do now?" Rick said in a nasal voice.
|
|
Frank looked around the battlespace and spied a wounded corvette
|
|
falling back from the oncoming Martian fleet. "Kill that corvette.
|
|
Follow me, Rick."
|
|
"Right behind you Bawanna."
|
|
Diving down at the corvette from above the pair closed the distance
|
|
to their target. At the range of one mile Frank triggered his two
|
|
right-wing lasers, particle cannon, fighter-to-fighter missiles, and
|
|
then rocketed past the corvette. Rick followed right behind him and
|
|
fired all of his weapons, too. Every shot fired by the ANGELs hit the
|
|
armor above the bridge of the corvette, slowly coring through until the
|
|
bridge was laid open to space. Everyone on the bridge was sucked into
|
|
space and the vessel went out of control. At breakneck speed it fell
|
|
into Earths atmosphere, burning like a torch as it fell towards the
|
|
Atlantic.
|
|
"Alright Frank! We are going to be considered gods when this fight
|
|
is over, man."
|
|
The smile that was spreading across Franks face died when ten
|
|
fighter-to-fighter missiles wove paths around his ship, but none hit.
|
|
A BAT fighter whipped by, above him and his wingman, from left to right.
|
|
Following its missiles back out in the direction of the moon.
|
|
"Damn, that was close." Frank whispered. His heart still racing
|
|
from the close brush with death.
|
|
"Let's go nail that bastard," Rick said, unaware of the shaken
|
|
state of his friend.
|
|
"Yeah, nail him," Frank said, turning his shock into anger. "Nail
|
|
him GOOD."
|
|
Frank jerked his controls hard to the left and accelerated after
|
|
the BAT. Ten seconds later the two ANGELs had closed the distance to
|
|
3,000 feet. Frank started maneuvering to get a lock on to the BAT.
|
|
Almost have him, Frank thought.
|
|
"Nail him, Frank"
|
|
Just a little to the left, Frank thought.
|
|
"Come on! Our fighters can't keep up with him much longer! Kill
|
|
him now!...Frank?...Frank!...He's breaking away!"
|
|
With a sudden jerk the BAT broke hard to the right and up. Rick
|
|
tried his best to keep up with it, yelling at Frank all the way. But
|
|
Frank didn't even notice. His eyes were trained on the space station,
|
|
30 miles away. Both destroyers guarding it had been blown away. The
|
|
Martian battleship, two heavy cruisers, and one frigate were firing on
|
|
the station relentlessly. The other Martian frigate was drifting
|
|
towards the moon, its engines were dark and it looked gutted. But what
|
|
had caught Franks attention was the space station itself. It was
|
|
rotating off its axis. The three mile diameter 'cap' of the mushroom
|
|
shaped station was turning to face the oncoming Martian fleet.
|
|
Then, without warning the lights of the station dimmed. Suddenly,
|
|
two blurs leapt from the center of the 'cap.' One struck the last
|
|
frigate and the other hit a heavy cruiser. Both ships ripped apart in
|
|
massive explosions, pieces of shattered metal flying in all directions.
|
|
The stations lights came back on.
|
|
Franks mind went reeling. Coilguns! The station must have a pair
|
|
of coilguns running the entire length of the 'stem.' That would give
|
|
them a two mile launch tube. The size shell that you could launch could
|
|
punch through the thickest part of earths crust! This fight is far from
|
|
over, Frank thought.
|
|
(Too be continued)
|
|
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
_______________________________
|
|
/ (*) (*) \
|
|
/_________________________________\
|
|
/ \ / \ / \
|
|
< \/ R U S H \/ >
|
|
\ By /
|
|
\ /\ Daniel Frederick /\ /
|
|
\_/__\_____________________/__\_/
|
|
\_____________________________/
|
|
|
|
It was getting closer. With every second that slowly passed it was
|
|
getting closer. This was nothing like I had wanted. All I could do was scream.
|
|
My legs wouldn't even move anymore. They were solid lead and my body was still
|
|
attached to each leg, my own fleshy ones gone.
|
|
A demonic dark shape only some forty feet away was approaching me in
|
|
slow motion. What ever had happened to my legs was nothing compared to lying
|
|
on top of all these spiders. Thousands of them crawling on me, even into my
|
|
mouth. I could feel each of their millions of legs as they danced over my
|
|
bare body.
|
|
Now that shape was in my vision, and I could see that it too was a
|
|
large hideous spider. It was almost upon me. I tried to crawl with my arms,
|
|
but they wouldn't move either because of the amount of poison the spiders had
|
|
stung me with. It seemed all I could do now was lay frozen by poison and fear
|
|
in this spider hell.
|
|
My eyes were unable to close from the sight of tiny legs on my
|
|
eyelids. My vision was slowly darkening and I thanked the supposed gods
|
|
that my family had always praised. Take me away from here. Life was closing
|
|
in on me, and I no longer cared that I was dying or that thousands of legs
|
|
crawled over me looking for anywhere to bite or walk.
|
|
It was a feeding frenzy from hell. It was almost over and I sat
|
|
back content to die. My will was gone and my mind wandering.
|
|
I had forgotten the looming shape.
|
|
I was almost gone when I suddenly became all too aware of it
|
|
again. Why couldn't I have died now that I was so close to peace. I was
|
|
in its grip, my body slowly swaying and dead. Seeing it clearly now, I
|
|
saw its thousands of eyes staring hungrily at me. Its hairy long legs
|
|
held me up to its mouth pincers. Death awaited me.
|
|
WAIT, MY GUN. If I could reach it. My arms--I needed to move
|
|
them. I had to. Scared out of my mind in this insane hell, I became
|
|
horribly mad. It couldn't do this to me. It was going to kill me. I
|
|
pulled for the .48, jabbed its muzzle under those staring eyes, and
|
|
pulled the trigger.
|
|
It hurt. My fingers could hardly move, but even with impaired
|
|
vision I knew I had not missed. I could see and hear its horrible cry
|
|
through my eye lids and the tiny legs as it threw me back violently.
|
|
As I fell the .48 fell from my limp fingers. The blast of the gun and
|
|
howl of the spider rang in my ears like a grenade going off in an empty
|
|
room. The queasy sensation of spiders in my stomach and mouth gagged
|
|
me. I could no longer breathe and my eyes were bugging painfully out of
|
|
my head. Agony! Somehow I was screaming. How? Screaming and gagging
|
|
and crying.
|
|
Then . . . God I'm sorry I had nothing left.
|
|
--- --- ---
|
|
Immediately after their partner was shot, Officers Jonson and
|
|
Rean made it to him. They had been only fifteen feet away from him.
|
|
Only fifteen feet away from helping him. Now Driscoll was dead. Another
|
|
good cop dead from another drug using scum.
|
|
The damn high was more important to them then even life. Their
|
|
life or anyone else's life killed by drug scum.
|
|
"Ahhh, the ultimate rush to death. I hope he enjoyed it, the damn scum.
|
|
Well there is nothing left to do now but dispose of them both. God I
|
|
hate the smell of dead spider, but I suppose we all smell this way when
|
|
dead," Jonson remarked as he kicked the scum with five of his six legs.
|
|
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
______________________
|
|
/ CHAOTICON II \
|
|
\ Announcement /
|
|
\____________________/
|
|
|
|
The Gamer's Club at UW Green Bay is sponsoring CHAOTICON II, a gaming convention
|
|
on April 17-18 from 9 am to 10 pm. There will be many roleplaying and wargames,
|
|
as well as several local vendors. Admission is $7 for the weekend and $5 per
|
|
day. For more info, please email me at:
|
|
868891ab@gbvaxa.uwgb.edu
|
|
|
|
Thank you,
|
|
Grut Gnollslayer
|
|
Half-Orc Chancellor to the High
|
|
Council of the Gamer's Club
|
|
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
________________________
|
|
/ TOME OF VAST KNOWLEDGE \
|
|
\ Announcement /
|
|
\______________________/
|
|
|
|
ANNOUNCING - The 2nd Public Release of a Program to Assist Dungeon
|
|
Masters find that obscure but important piece of information that
|
|
will make your campaign a hit.
|
|
|
|
The TOME of VAST KNOWLEDGE is a program written for IBM
|
|
compatible micro-computers, it requires 512K of RAM and a hard disk
|
|
is recommended for optimal performance.
|
|
|
|
This program is several things, but primarily it is a
|
|
database for the many little pieces of information which make AD&D
|
|
the game it is. There are several ways of searching for info. of
|
|
interest: 1) sequential, manual, 2) keyword search. Additionally,
|
|
this program has an NPC generator (but then again who doesn't), an
|
|
automatic spell list generator, and a few other goodies. More
|
|
importantly this program was built with the realization that no
|
|
program can do it all. The TOME should work with other AD&D
|
|
utilities if they don't require too much memory.
|
|
|
|
I have put copies at:
|
|
greyhawk.stanford.edu : /D_D/incoming/vast_101.tar.Z
|
|
sandman.caltech.edu : /pub/adnd/inbound/vast_101.zip
|
|
|
|
Enjoy, and give me feedback so the TOME can get better. Thank you to
|
|
those who have given feedback, I'm working on improvements as we
|
|
speak.
|
|
|
|
I'd like to thank the many individuals who made suggestions, and
|
|
those who contributed material for this 2nd release. Particularly
|
|
those who answered my call for NET.MAGIC.ITEMS. If you have any
|
|
material you feel would fit in the TOME, send it along.
|
|
|
|
PS. Watch for an announcement of the Database BUILDER for the TOME
|
|
of VAST KNOWLEDGE (YES! Make/customize your own databases) coming
|
|
soon.
|
|
|
|
Douglas P. Webb a.k.a. Magus the Black
|
|
dwebb@binkley.CS.McGill.CA
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
/\
|
|
/\/ \/\
|
|
_/ \____________
|
|
/ F I N A L \
|
|
/ O P I N I O N \
|
|
/ By \
|
|
/ Benjamin Price \
|
|
/_______________________________\
|
|
|
|
Like a blade, the wind cuts through my feeble flesh and chills me to
|
|
the very marrow of my bones. Stubbornly I stagger onward; I can see the
|
|
door only a few meters away, warm light streaming from the windows. I
|
|
think to myself that I must be a pitiful sight: snow has encrusted my
|
|
hair, my skin is a color that would closely match concrete, and not a
|
|
shred of my clothing can be seen underneath a centimeter-thick layer of
|
|
frost.
|
|
After what seems an eternity, the door looms close. Desperately I
|
|
grasp the handle and hurl the thing open. As I lurch through the portal,
|
|
I cannot help but grin, and I pause for a moment and let warmth return
|
|
feeling to my nose and fingers. Then, purposefully, I stride around a
|
|
corner, down a hall, and with a flourish I burst into the room for which
|
|
I endured the elements.
|
|
"Ben, you idiot... why in the Hell are you wearing a tank-top and
|
|
shorts in a blizzard?" a stray voice laughs.
|
|
I do not deign to answer. I thought it was Spring. It WAS Spring,
|
|
fifteen minutes ago. There is a saying here: "If you don't like the
|
|
weather in Colorado, wait five minutes." If that isn't written on a
|
|
stone tablet somewhere, it should be.
|
|
Shaking off coat, snow, and the occasional icicle, I make my way to a
|
|
(gosh, surprise, surprise) computer terminal. The lab holds its usual
|
|
compliment of intellectuals, zombies, and frustrated students working on
|
|
due assignments, but looking around I am unable to draw any inspiration
|
|
from them. I ponder, wondering what my potentially last contribution to
|
|
ICS should be. I thoroughly annoy my nearest neighbors by experimenting
|
|
with most of the possible rhythms that can be generated by combining
|
|
keyclicks and beeps. And then I am struck with a wonderful idea.
|
|
I'll write a program to write my assignments for me!
|
|
I'm going to go do that now.
|
|
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
ICS would like to hear from you. We accept flames, comments,
|
|
submissions, editorials, corrections, and just about anything else you
|
|
wish to send us. For your safety use these guidelines when sending us
|
|
anything. We will use things sent to us when we think the would be
|
|
appropriate for the goal of the issue coming out. So, if you send us
|
|
something that you DO NOT want us to use in the electrozine, then put
|
|
the words NOT FOR PUBLICATION in the subject of the mail you send us.
|
|
You can protect your material by sending a copy to yourself
|
|
through the mail and leaving the envelope unopened.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
BACK ISSUES: Back Issues of ICS can be FTPed from UGLYMOUSE.CSS.ITD.UMICH.EDU
|
|
They are in the directory /pub/Zines/ICS. (NOTE: the administrator may have
|
|
them in /pub/Politics/ICS still.)
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
ICSICSICSICSICSICSICS/\ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICS
|
|
CSICSICSICSICSICSICS/ \CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICS
|
|
ICSICSICSICSICSICSI/ \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
|
|
CSICSICSICSICSICSI/ \CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
|
|
ICSICSICSICSICSIC/ I C S \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSIC
|
|
CSICSICSICSICSIC/ \CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSIC
|
|
ICSICSICSICSICS/ Electro- \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICS
|
|
CSICSICSICSICS/ Zine \CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICS
|
|
\ /
|
|
\ /
|
|
\ /
|
|
\ / An Electronic Magazine from
|
|
\ / Western State College
|
|
\ / Gunnison, Colorado.
|
|
\ / ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
|
|
\/ '*'
|
|
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|