A

Mark
1
You join and remember nothing, nothing except words that were read before you were born
from. You remember nothing except form and function ,of those words, repeating ,and repeated. And
that was it, because you wanted to repeat them. There was nothing about them that was extraordinary,
they weren't even words in your own language, but you wanted to repeat them none the less. There was
very even if its nonsense. Even if it was unclear. So he counted out the symbols, and realized that they
were trying to form not words, but symbols that he did not understand.
They were trying to form not letters, not even symbols, something else entirely, so he began to
realize that words were not what it was about, nor even symbols, but an agglomeration, and the true
meaning was something more than that.
Who was seen? Word would not mean anything, Giorgio Aremegi was such name, he was
Giorgio of nothing else, but realized that that was just a name that symbolized nothing more. Is
symbolized himself quite clearly at some instances, and not very clearly at all in other other instances,
it was just a name sometimes, and other times it was magical and wondrous. He realized that he had to
harness this word and symbol and make it is.
But how to do that he did not know.
But what he is known is that was nonsense, and what he had to was to give on the ball. This
was something there only it did not know what it was. The only new words and symbols and he was
going to grapple with them if it was the last thing he did. Even if it took endless amounts of time,
because time was the only thing he had. And so he put all way the catechism and returned to numbers
that were prepared which he strove towards.
So there is a force that knows drives him, and your drives his mind. It means very little to most
people, it means very little to him self, but is my is not flexible in the way that most people are. Instead
it reaches out through the dumb and into the smart very gradually, until it gets it right and then he
speaks like someone obsessed. Then he is like a demon then collapses down to dumbness again, as if it
were normal for him.
So it began to think about light and reason, as opposed to darkness, he began to think about
reason as if it were the paradigm of light, as opposed to the paradigm of darkness. Each one of them,
light and darkness, pitched their wills against each other. On the darkness side there was something
about it that seemed cool, and dark, which made each individual unique, special, and ominous. On the
dark side there was something that needed a paradigm. On the light side on the other hand there was a
coolness but not yet cold, there was something bright about it, though he did not know what. He knew
only that the dark side and the light side were contesting for his soul, the bright side reaching up out of
the cosmos, the dark side reaching in to the soul.
So he wrote one part that was endured to hideous black, and one part enjoined to pristine white.
He only knew that one part would obscure the other, part that was conjoined and was the book of souls,
the other part was joined with pure though he did not know what. What he did know was that he was
going to be one of the two, not both. He would decide whether he was going to be the priest , or the
scientist.
One thing he could be sure that was that the dark tried to reason, and the reasonable side tried
to form some soul searching, thus it was unreasonable to assume that each object would be whole
within him. He would be a mystic on either side. He would be a dark mystic in either sense of the word,
only coming to terms with himself in either way. He would be then, a mystic who could reason, or or
reason who could plague himself with direst consequences. He wrote, an he did not know whether he

was being unreasonable or not, only that he was doing it from good, what ever that was.
So it's meant that he could not even tell what it was that was religion, and what was the cosmos.
In fact, he did not know which was which. A new that everything that people had written about, was a
tiny fraction of what was. He thought of time, and he knew that that was the scale of light and he tried
to warp his thoughts around it, he knew that it was going to be reasonable at some scale, if he could just
warp his mind around it.
But he did not know whether this was light or dark in terms of how he thought of things. He
knew that this was nonsense because no form could be given to whether it was mystical or it was
physical, and he wanted to know that at the very least.
He wanted to retch, and this was only the beginning of what he wanted to do. Over and over he
wished for clarity as well as darkness, because in that way he received clarity. He stood up and reached
over to the doorstep, which his roommate was coming in. he noticed many things, clarity of the
doorstep, the clarity which he thought was opening the lock. He realized that the lock was pristine, but
then it vanished. And his roommate went in and said nothing.
So he tilted on the floor, not even getting up, and begin again. And again. And again. He knew
he was on to something though he did not know what. He tried it again, this time from the lighter side
and cramped in this way downward to see whether that will be enough.
So he wrote and he wrote, and did not know whether it was to be darkness, or light.
2
It was booming harassment, and noise was its aspect. 30 or so students were trying to get
questions out of the prof, who was of course trying to get out , and instead push in the one of the junior
people meant to take their questions. There were scattered individuals who were talking among
themselves, even though it wasn't about anything important to the class. One person knew something
about the class and was trying to elucidate, though he was wrong on this particular instance. And then
there was Giorgio, who looked lost.
The prof gave him a short nod and then went back to his favorite person, who wasn't that good
but gave enormously thoughtful regurgitation of his main points back to him. The prof was listening to
the greater regurgitation, and he loved it. This was why he wasn't a great fan of Gio in either light or
darkness modes. Something about it was wrong.
Gio slipped away and ran into someone from the next class, and instead of looking beside him,
he recognized him, and spoke.
You really ought to take a class which is more in line with your major, about to steps up from
this.
He got through only about halfway, but it was enough to get to Gio to respond back.
It is all right, it is as if I'm being listened to in this class. So why not just hang in the back and
listen to what the professor has to say.
John, whom was a good deal more than actively precise, looked at him. Gio was disheveled
and working on things that were part of the curriculum, but were clearly Gio own slant. He could see
figures and equations that were obviously part of the curriculum that someone two levels above him.
And their were a few things which would confuse the prof him self. It's clear to John, that this person
would be responsive to a bit more guidance then he got. If there might be guidance from Gio mouth
piece which could be of some significance, because John knew that Giorgio was one of the best
members any where in the world, if he could only be focused.
You know it might be beneficial to you to attend graduate, student class - on this topic.
No, I don't think I'm quite ready for the pressure.
I don't think you understand, they will not be ready for the pressure, and light that you would
bring to them.

For enough I wouldn't want to bring pressure to them either.

It would be good for them.
Gio looked at him and thought, and he realized that this was extraordinarily good chance, good
chance to show other people that there was conscious thought. His mind was made up but how could he
make a un-nonchalant way to grab without seeming too obvious to how he was going. He wants to say
that he would like to go, but he didn't know how to say it gracefully. So he blurted it all out.
Why, can't I do something logical. Is that too much to ask.
What did you have in mind?
I won't bo...
He would not force him with the details yet, but it was those details that were somehow
obsessing him. It was these things that were feeding on mind. He had to explain something about them
even if a broad brush. But were begin, he had just pointed a detail, and it hadn't worked. So he began
again this time with a detailed. But what detail was? What intoxicating detail wasn't?
I want to begin with a single abstraction, but not one which is public. You see details are
common, but not the details which are ones which we comprehend, those are last years details, amid
which is common but is now wrong.
There has to be a reason for this.
Yes, there is because before this there was another set details, which was wronger still, so it
goes. This set of details will be, newer less wrong than the last case details. My details will be stronger
but last wrong then the last details.
So there is little to find on last details.
Yes, but there is more to find out about these details . Even if there very small, there
important.
Playing devils advocate John relished, it even down to a fairly hawkish demeanor. He swirled
his fake mustache and said: with the grand unified force and gravity that would seem all there is, a
part from nudging of the grand force which will be small. his hand went to a tiny part. A small piece
of the puzzle.
That's because that's the size of matter versus anti-matter, a tiny part of matter, in the whole
part of matter, is a very small piece of matter/antimatter, that's what I'm trying to point out, only matter
which is not contained in the matter/antimatter equation is truly free to be as it wishes to be, everything
else is an agglomeration of antimatter/ matter.
John could see that there was something here but what he could not could not say, it was as if
there were bits of nonsense and one bit of sense, he could hear matter and antimatter, and that was
sensible. But he didn't know if there was sense enough. He could appeal, and then perhaps out of range,
it would go careening around the bend, and talking gibbering nonsense, like the time he started out with
cords and worked his way out to something which was like, but not really, the stars. And that was only
the beginning, which made no sense to him at all.
I do not understand, I think it makes sense at the word level, but not at the sentence level.
He start to cough, and started to ask a question, and explain, and answer. Then he realized that
language wouldn't be the way to do it instead he ripped off a pen and started to write with it on a white
board. There he was clear, and more concise, and John knew that it was profound. He also knew that it
was forgetting, a sort of passed it was passed that was very small, and within it a future, which was
very large but very subtle. He could only grasp it at the extreme edges, it wasn't clear whether it was
the truth, but it wasn't clear that it was a fantasy either.
Gio was then on the next page, but this was wrong, and even he knew it. But even this was
wrong in a more subtle way than anything that John had been right about. Again it was subtle and
positive and negative charges were suspect, they were wrong but they could be flipped over and be
right, charge was wrong, but time was, not correct, but something like it was. He didn't know where to
start on the first page, and he didn't know where to finish on the second page. On the first page he was

whimpering, on the second page he pulled out a ruler and was lecturing a fool.
He whipped out his own pen and made some corrections, only to be stopped by the person
making notes. Gio was angry at him, so angry that he couldn't even say, angry enough not to say
anything.
You ruined my work. If you had anything to say, then do so when I'm finished. And I would
wait my turn. And then we can begin again, I having my say, and you correcting it.
John realized that Giorgio thought, and perhaps he was right to think so, that he was part of the
greater conversation which he had felt he should be a part of. And John realized that he was going to be
the method of transferring Gio in to essential voice. You see in physics, there was a conversation
dominated by the very esoteric, and young, voices. There were other voices which commented and
explicated, these were older voices explaining what the younger voices had explained in mathematics.
I will take this up and you'll have your chance, really, a good chance, I don't think that you
want to go to the general physics, which is a bunch of boobs, we need to get you to the real physicists
who are only peripherally known to the general public. Will with one or two exceptions, and not at this
facility.
Gio nodded, and picked up his pencil and paper. And that was all. Then he was going as if to
say goodbye. John did not know if he would ever see him again, so he had to get going on this to a few
professors immediately. He would be back on the next day, and the day after that, only on the third day
would he get a response.
3
Gio went about his business as if he had contacted with another person, and dropped his
conversation with John. If John didn't want to speak to him, or did not want conduct under his terms
then so be it, he knew how to conduct John, and John new how to contact him. There were other things
to do, and he should rather get on them, rather than John holding his throat. He did not know if there
was any contact, because though John knew, he did not know if there was to be any contact.
So he away some time, which could have been spent reading grammar that he had wasted. He
knew that grammar was important but not so important as his two major obsessions: physics and
philosophy. And since physics was dealt with, that left The other math to be studied: philosophy. He
cranked his arm above his head and gestured with a firm gesture that shook many of the students, and
of the primitive meanders to startle upwards. Because wall many people wanted to know vast majority
wanted to be known of. And to known of was quite a different thing.
But he wondered away, knowing that it was being which was important, not knowing. Their is
a different side, this knowing, because it is taking philosophy and forming it in two rectitude, and that
is exactly the reverse: physics is knowing how to transform, and lay forth the doctrine which you
dreamed of, not the other way around.
He didn't like the square shops which people consumed breakfast, nor playgrounds of the rich
which provided some comfort but not much nourishment. Instead he wished that he would summon
something unique, Something that what special. He decided to go to lunch and dream about physics
and philosophy, perhaps both at once.
He ordered Reuben on Rye with just a bit of seed, so that he could crunch. Since there was
almost nobody else he thought it would be quick, but he was wrong. Seconds dragged on into minutes ,
and dragged on to quarter hours, when he cast up. Finally, after a hour, he asked whether he could
leave. He was waiting for an answer, and he stood there for a moment. He would be waiting still if he
was standing, there for an answer. And he would be waiting still, because he was being hospitable, this
is how someone who waits and does not react.
In the foreground there was a someone cleaning up the soda jerk, which was a kind of reaction
to seeing where soda jerks, were common amid dwindling number. Once they were legion now only

common in some places, like this place for instance. And over behind the counter there was a pretty
young women who was getting attention but really wasn't playing for, she was just getting attention for
attentions sake. This would've gone on if another person had come in, she wanted attention but of a
different kind, she wanted hamburger, or something, and she was going to get it. She then turned
around and saw Gio, who, to her eyes, was strange but good natured, if you didn't count the drawings
that he made. She stood there, and then said, our you going to invite me, or is it some sort of fraternal
that boys can suit up for, but girls are not permitted to speak.
This made Gio jump, he knew her, she was actually sort of bright, in her own way. He
mumbled, and stood back, that was enough for her plow in. She was pushy, and that was all right,
because he was not pushy at all. She plopped as it nothing was going to happen, and angled her legs
back and dictated a sandwich and a malt drink and then took her time deciding whether to have dessert.
She decided not to. Then she talked to Gio, has if she were talking about the weather. She could
actually talk about whether, and talk about it in great detail.
So where were you, I mean this morning.
He mumbled something, which was unrecognizable, and then tilted his head forward.
She tried again because she wasn't going to accept a hazy misremembered dream as an answer.
She tried again, this time with feeling and communication which was considerably more distinct and
enigmatic.
Why don't I take a step or two forward, and ask you what you are study.
I think I'll study psychology, because I studied physics this morning and it clearly gave a
headache.
To who, it needs a verb, to did it give headache to.
To John, gave headache to John.
That was easy, wasn't?
If you say so, I found it rather hard.
She looked at him and realized, really realized, that this was truly a theme, and it was true. She
then said: I'm sorry it was so difficult.
Do you really mean that?
Why, yes, why wouldn't I?
Gio was grateful, so grateful that he didn't mean to sound so...
You did know what it feels like.
You could tell me, the life make it better, or at least it won't feel as that.
He thought for a moment, and said, You really wouldn't understand. You wouldn't wonder
stood what violence is about. And it was, dangerous.
Her response was equally valid, she rolled her eyes they are at him. He knew he was wacky, and
so did she, but she didn't know how much. And making him was not going to happen.
What do you think I meant. Tell me what I needed to do, Gio. You know you could say my
name, Gio.
I don't know what your name is, except in phases where I know that it is Julia or...
Julia is was, it was unknown whether he told at random, or he planned it. He feigned nothing
was amiss, and said that it was planned. There was no reason why it could not be both. And it was
joined, and that was that, he wanted her because he knew that she had the secrets. And she thought she
had secrets to give, secrets that she planned to give him if he would bet her, if only he knew. He didn't
know, he was concerned about matters of state.
Not matters of state, if you know what I mean.
That is an amazing site in the, if it is true.
4

It matters not what Julia and Gio said to each other what was important was not sent to each
other. And that was another story. Each one was a different aspect of the norm so she had to playing her
self into his hands, but that is another story. What is important is that after that day she would be the
side her self and no amount of willpower would stay the course, yes she was staying the course and
with that she would have many enemies. Julia kept the secrets, the was her part, terrible secrets. And
John would carry not secrets, would joined up in light. But these weren't the only parts of the story,
secrets and light were not the only part of things. You see there are many kinds of secrets my exposed
the mind, each condemning that they were light that was like and the others were not ,or not quite, or
even quite yet. Each one trying to clear that it was they that declared like and not the other ones, such
as was done in Einstein's age. One of the junior mechanics had a plan which would unify some of the
forces, but it was ugly. So was another one. And they fought about it, he arguments going round and
round. Then someone noticed that they were both the same thing.
They still argued over which was the better formulation, and then realized some cases one was
in some cases it was. So both carried the day. This was to rounds ago in physics, but it was interesting
none the less. If you don't believe me I can give you chapter and verse, and you could look it up
yourself. Then you can go on to how the Grand Unified Force came into being. And then you could get
on to this project. So only three generations before this, and it was still remember.
Then came the project which is known as Grand Unified Theory, and two things were
important, one is the there were lots of theory additions, using lots of unified theories which all came
back to one. This is two generation ago. Some of them are even alive fighting for its pieces. And it will
take some time before it is recognized, even though it all sound. There is Alan who problems sized that
before the big bang occurred, just a little before my you, there was an eerie bit of space-time which was
dark, and he predicted that this was a unified theory where the universe was sorting itself out.
Which leads to this, which is sorting itself out, Gio is part of this phase, and you won't meet
him in the tomes of physics, because these are the domes of what will be as opposed to what is.
Giorgio, and Julia, and John, on real people, though there are others like them. Some are boys, and
what is interesting, is some are girls, which is very strange because only one was a girl in her time. You
know who she is. That is why she is named Radium, she was actual person. Certainly we can help that
there are more like her in this chapter.
We can hope.
Anyway there is commotion, because there is a great deal more matter than before, some
people think that this is because bound up its matter and antimatter, so only a tiny fraction is matter
alone. So this is the story which is bound up in physics, and philosophy, and a bit of magic.
But not a lot of magic, just a little bit.
Julia, John, and Gio.
And perhaps some of the places, but we don't know that yet.
Last time, the very last time, we were engaged in a conversation between Julia and Gio, and it
didn't make sense to most of you that it. Will try again, this time with background that makes it make
sense to you. Well if you look through some strange tomes it will, mostly. They also, mostly, don't care,
and they should.
Anyway they have mostly passed through The transition the bloody meat of the conversation.
They've claptrap about this and that. In one is it gets interesting. Very interesting indeed.
Remember while these are fictional characters what they are talking about is quite real indeed,
and stranger than it appears on the page. Trust me on this one, its stranger in real life than it is on the
page.
5

She went off the deep end. And what's more she wanted to see if he would react. She wanted to
see what his reaction would be, whether it was reactive in the way that she wanted, or whether it was
something snitty, which she would like at all. She slid out a topic which would mean nothing to most
people, but would snare at the right kind of people. One group of people would be turned off, and she
doesn't like those sorts of people, but some people, or at least she thought some people would react.
She didn't know, she hadn't encountered those people yet. She slid it so that no one but the few would
react to it. She slid it because she didn't want to know if it had been reacted to. She slid it because she
did not want to know.
He hit it out of the park.
He talked about it from several different angles, talking inside of it and outside of. She didn't
know how to respond because she hadn't through all of the consequences. You see, many people have
sticking group, a sort of thing that they wish in conversation. Most of the time it's very common though
very discreet. Other people have different ideas which they think are very complicated, they're not
complicated just more complex.
She thought about it for a great long while, and she thought about it inside, the very inside,
where she was in side of him. She was burrowing in side of him to get the with of what grasps his
mind. She imagined one thing, crystal clear condensate, which seemed placid and tranquil, what she
found was something extraordinarily different. It was like staring at the sun, and finding out that it was
stranger. Stranger than stranger in fact.
She was imagining something that was seeing something calmer, and instead found something
that was that violence, and at first she flinched. Then she saw something bright and clear, a sign which
had significance, and told her that what she had seen before was not an accident. It had been clear but
she did not know it, but now she did and it was fascinating, though very strange. She wanted to say that
it was colorful but that is not correct instead it's luminescent as if it had radiation from within not
without. She didn't know what to make of him, but she knew that he had a deeper internal light.
From his perspective he knew nothing of this, just that she had looked at him and laughed, and
then grew silent. She had looked at him and giggled, and then grew silent. She had looked at him and
communed, and then grew silent. It was the silence that was quickly to his forehead. And he accepted
it, though it also was strange, but not so strange as to be wary. For the first time he listened to her on
another path, something that was different, another path from his years to hers.
She picked it up, and listened from her inner here, where he was speaking to her with another
mind.
What's the sound, I don't hear it with listening but somehow it's dense. Is it titnis, I've heard
that is what people can listen to.
I don't know what that is, but I know what you're asking, so that means it's not the same, I
think.
She grinned that she knew something that he did not. She teased her hand, wondering if he
would recognize that. With a surprise he did.
You don't need to tease that way if you don't want my attention.
I want your attention. Blunt. And obvious. She wasn't going to get going that easily. This was
too important. She had to know what drove him this way, it should be obvious, but it was, it could be
dangerous, but she didn't care. What she did care was what drove him towards her.
He stood there and wondered what to say. He wondered what she wanted. And in truth she
didn't know. He wondered what to feel, and she could not have said anything. The only thing that she
wanted was to explain what she was feeling and explain to her what he was thinking.
So was, she wanted to know what he was, and he didn't care if he knew. It was this first step, in
a crazy act called love. It isn't what is important to most people, but it was important to them. They
were half way down, and they were not noticing. If they had been looking, for someone had been
looking for them, he would tell him that someone was looking for them. Only, the person wouldn't say

who it was because he did not know.

6
They had walked from Belmont back in to Cambridge. You don't need to know what Cambridge
or Belmont, that not particular to the story, though you can look it up. But you should know it's an East
Coast kind place, where there was a place to hang your hat, if you didn't have some place to hang it.
You also need to know that in Boston there was one kind of person, and in Cambridge another sort of
person, and they don't mix well together. Not in the slightest, in fact.
The other thing you have to know is that Boston kind of people are people who hang out in
early Metropolitan style of buildings, where has Cambridge people hang out in small chatty style of
buildings such as a tea room or someplace that serves great lattes. It is that Boston style of people don't
hang out with lattes but they do so only for an half an hour, and then they want to go and get back to
business. A quick bit of noshing and then to get back to work. This would not do at all in Cambridge,
where it would take several minutes just to read the menu and then have each member have asked if
you could make it a different way. Just to be special. The work nooks and crannies like this in Boston
but not a whole floor, as it were.
The other thing that you'll find, is that professors of the Boston side of the river want
professional people, people that will come in learn and then get out of the way. While it isn't as bad,
and believe me it was once really that, the Cambridge side would have 10 year undergraduate students,
though these were becoming more common in the outer boroughs of Boston. In Cambridge there were
more of a letter, with only a smattering the students who were there to get forwarded your degree.
These are important distractions, which many people have regarded as the pinnacle of each side of the
river. And one that they've chosen their side of the river, or they've created their teeth and said to her
going to get along if it was the last thing on the planet. Of course, Julia was part of Cambridge side of
place, and Gio , was native to place down in Argentina, and so instinctively gravitated towards
Cambridge, as if by homing instinct. He was not part of Cambridge proper, meaning MIT or Harvard,
but an upstart school, one distinctly average, with some quirkiness. He was definitely one of the quirks.
Julia was not part of the quirks, she was engaged in what she thought of as Hastings, but which was
larger part, and it only became Hastings as part of a renewed sense of pride. It was actually a music
school which had needed protection.
They didn't know it but they were clasping and hand when they got down to business. She
noticed it when they separated. They were in love, but no one wanted to admit this. She did want to
admit that she was in love, and he didn't want to admit that someone loved him. It was consecrated,
boys didn't want to know the boys would recognize a pattern, and girls didn't want someone one to
know that the pattern fits around your neck.
He walked away from the red brick building and stopped on a corner street where he realized
he wanted to eat, and this was an excellent way to gain some fast easy grace by getting some of food.
So he turned around and drifted in to a four story white brick building which he knew he could get
some food, there was some amount of contact and he could say he knew the boy. He loitered up the
stairs, glancing only at the body of work, and it was pretty bad work, truth be told.
Dave, are you there, Dave. Can you hear me, Dave.
The pieces of the puzzle sounded like something out of 2001, they were disjointed and jointed
at the same time. He sounded as if he were dreaming, not as a man would, put something cyber would.
In his mind he thought he was being thoughtful, that is not what a person would hear from their own
perspective however. They would hear in as often in transcendence. A trance.
Dave, however, finally did respond, his hands were rough from all of the chalk pieces. He
looked at his friend and cleaned up. Even responded even though he was also picking his hands of

some debris, meaning of course that had done. He was almost finished, and was drying them as quickly
as he was able, because he too wanted to lay things out.
They each one wanted some time, but they each one wanted to know what the other one felt. So
they were stopping themselves, and granting some time to the others. Then they spoke together,
because that was obvious that they were free to express, then they stopped when the other person was
saying something, this was stopping and starting three times before Dave realized that he was going to
go second regardless of how it went. For the last time he spoke, and then leaned back to have his say
afterwards.
I got two requirements. First, I need to understand what is it about another human being which
makes them like you.
I don't understand what this is in relationship to you, do you like somebody? I mean a girl.
If you assume for a moment that girlfriend means, and girlfriend or boyfriend.
This was a joke, both of them talked extensively about whether or not they were something else
other than what they were, which some gobbledygook of mass, they didn't know where the they were
bi, gay, something else entirely, or American straight.
They were something is terribly, but they screwed only straight women. And they didn't talk
about it, there is nothing to talk about.
So what's your next problem.
He reached for his belt and pulled out something, it was an old yellow picture which was his
grandfather. He held the at arms reach, and he explained , really babbled actually.
This was my grandfather or something, he wanted me to be a priest.
It was difficult to explain, his grandfather was dead, and he grew up with someone who he
knew was in his real father, but was very close. But he hadn't explained what, the anything, they had to
do with each other, and he wasn't sure there was a question. So he tried again, to elicit something which
sounded like a question, and then he could get on to his worries, which were a question only to himself
and would go round and round.
So what are the questions, that you want to ask about your would be girlfriend, and your
grandfather.
He was first trying to give an answer, which would be acceptable. Then he wanted to explain
that the girl asked to meet up with approval, even though she would ever meet the father. It was round
and round in his skull. He wanted to know whether he was right in asking her to be his girl, in essence.
But how to explain this predicament was no usual task because he wasn't too where of how the
decision went. Even other people would not have passed and gone to answer, truly, they would room
about through question just to get to the question which would answer something. It was only stick
figures which would answer the question and get a response. That is why they meet questions head-on.
So he mumbled something and hope that his mate would tell him something was all right. But
this wasn't going to go anyplace, because his locator was damaged as well. That why it was painful, if
you know all about people you would go someplace else, and not bother, but purely is important, you
see if you knew what was going on you but under stand that she is the one for him and he needs to
make that clear. But unlike the Between normal policy which is not to human to forgive, there is a wide
gap.
But this had a defect, and that was it was damaged but alert. Dave new something different but
alive and he was going to interject it right now.
So are you going to screw her, and then screw him, or are you going to make it a double. Of
course this was a joke, he never thought that this boy was going to screw anybody but a new it was not
going to be his father, at all. Ever. And I mean ever.
Gio got it, early, but he got it. You would not be amazed by how many would not get it when
they first got college. There were few things that they did get, because these people were not exactly
human.

 No, I'm not going to screw him, I want him to give me a blessing to screw her but not tell him
about it. He's dead so it doesn't matter, but I wanted to tell him and have it be all right.
So Dave got past the opening, but he knew that there was something else, so he waited. It
would be rude to interrupt his friend, even if his friend wasn't exactly being honest. So he just waited.
And sure enough he did not have the weight, for Gio managed to grasp what he needed to say next.
So what if I wanted to ditch everything and just go live on a farm or something?
So what if you did, with mind, who would care, other than your parents of course.
I think maybe, some of my friends what care.
Like who, exactly.
Like John, for example, he would not like it.
And what would you want to say to John.
That he can go to hell, but not yet because I need him for something.
What do you need him for.
Scientists need a plan, and then they can just go off, and enjoy, join the success that they built
up for themselves. But first they need that plan to be executed.
Actually that was reasonable, go off get your success, and then have people come to you, first
you have the build to success, which can mean many years, but you have the basic sense of the plan. It
depends on what your success will be based on course, physics is quick, biology is hard, harder if you
want to prove a complex trail. Since one of his two plans was for physics, that what suggest that he do
physics, first.
It sounds as if you have answered your own question.
I suppose I had, I didn't really think of it that way.
That's because he didn't think of it at all just had group questions, and I realize that they
answered each other.
It says that I need some help, from John, for example.
Dave new John intimately, they were both people who knew other people, but did have
knowledge themselves. They drifted a new what to ask for, and then brought it to other people so as to
amazed. They were both looking for answers, but they wanted them supplied by other people.
Yes, I would say so.
And then he, that is Gio, was gone. He went down the steps to inform various parts that he
made up his mind.
Dave didn't mind this, because another time he would be drumming his mill. And Gio would
listen instead. He listened even though these won't talk. He means both Dave and Gio both, often at the
same time.
But Dave was in the back view mirror, he had to get going on something which was very
urgent. He needed to get Julia, and tell her that she would be his, if she wanted to be, but there was
something else to do first. If she would wait for him.
Then he had to get going, and she would be responsible for whether he was going to come
back. And then he would sleep and go to John and tell him what his plan was. And that was going to be
a project.
So first Julia, then John, and somewhere in the middle of those two he would get some sleep
and turn. And toss. And get some sleep before he tried to pick up the pieces, and he would rest between
Julia and John, he thought though he didn't know whether he would get some sleep. Dave would be
annoyed if he knew how long it would take, but not that annoyed.
7
The days are long now, but not so long as to where out the welcome. But even these days have
run out and night has come crashing down, it is truly night out there. What he sees is a quickly darkness

that has mortal tail about it, leaves darkness everywhere, because it is quite the darkness of the city, nor
is a countryside, but somewhere in between, which is overcome by city lights which are distant but not
quite upon you. It is night in the air but not on the ground, the ground is textured and shadowed by a
general greediness, the kind that comes ominously before you, and then glances aside, taking anything
that it can from its paws, and tempting them into its own.
Roamed up the streets gathering to a place where it leveled the darkness from the town and
over there it ushered into the darkness that was the city, but not quite yet. Not quite here. Here was one
center of Cambridge, it leaves an aftertaste that is in one sense could, and in another sense bad. It was a
tale of two cities, rest assured, and it isn't quite darkened yet.
It was Julia, he look up, down, in, and out. They weren't boulevards, but they were too narrow
to be streets, they were in between. He knew them, but not well.
He tried. but failed.
Still looking, and that is the problem. He should be searching, with unknown purpose, but he
wasn't he was still looking. So he saw a number of streets, some were cluttered and wretched hives told
with students, some were talent and gay, he stayed away from the buildings which were for people
which were going home, they would not want him. Or at least so he incurred.
Found himself on what could be called a Boulevard, it was different than he had expected. It
was noble, even regal, he thought back until the time when he was a boy, and it was the same thing,
which was more than unusual. He looked around and wondered if he'd ever been down. Of course he
knew that he had been, but he didn't know whether it was real or whether it was fake in terms of travel
in his mind's eye and book. He finally decided that it had been real, only he didn't know when it was.
He stopped and gazed, and for a moment he could not help resolve, but finally he got the nerve to go
forth again. So forth he went, though he stopped by a bookstore which had innumerable creations, all of
them in writing not in English.
If he had wanted he could have spent a lifetime down with the stacks, and it was tempting to do
so. But he knew that he had to do something, and this was distracting. So he put down a book and
started upwards again. Though he looked down at the bookstore, which was lower. It beckoned to him,
and he wanted nothing more than to collapse. So he slogged his way along it was beckoning to him and
he was torn, books behind him, but dark coming to bright in front of him. And then it got easier still
and he was on the run. Past the assortment of bookstores and establishments, each one of them having a
grip on his attention.
Then he was behind the square, finding his way across the back and, with her just two blocks
away, and he couldn't go on to it. It was sacred, and he didn't have permission. Though he was brighter
than all but the brightest students at Harvard. He wasn't to be admitted. Again he noticed that he had
not found the student, he hadn't found Julia. Then she found him, and she had such a tere on her face,
such a tere for him. He would have, in fact, gone, but he had made up his mind long ago. In fact it was
day when he decided, and it was night now. He had to bear whatever he had to bear, in order for him to
explain.
So began the sentence, which he knew was coming.
Hello.
Hello, yourself. You didn't tell me you had an article in this month's Science.
I didn't know. Really I didn't know.
What you mean you didn't know?
I just did some figuring work is not my paper in language just in the science, and that no one
will notice at all.
What the do you mean, the signs is the paper, all the rest is garbage.
I just helped along, the paper is by me, mostly.
You just put down the math.
Exactly, what are you worried about.

What am I worried about? People are already talking as if the math came from a different body
from the science. There is going to be a lot of discussion, because it's really clear that the professor was
the source of the math. He could be different, and what's more math is what is important. Don't you see,
math is the important part of the article, letter, whatever you call it.
Gio really did see this, but he was embarrassed. He wanted to remain embarrassed, but pride
tempted him and he took it. He knew his math was right, and he could see what the prof would do,
which was to sink the math under needs gobs of clichs, and then say that he had meant something else
entirely. If the prof wanted to do that he could, but as the author of math he was going to stick to his
guns. Even if it was the last thing he did.
Are you done.
She didn't know, but she was sure that he didn't think she was done. So if she want to, she could
talk for an hour. But she didn't, we don't know if she was going to talk by herself. But listening to him,
she knew it was time for her to stop talking.
He clasped and reached for her, and held her close to him.
They were in love only a little bit. This was the little bit of contact, but not much contact. There
was no conduct of a different kind, as it were. There was a need, and that led a need to touch, which
increased the need to kiss. It was trembling need, but they did so to glance way from each other, and
trampled as if the need to kiss was poignant. But not too poignant, not so earthly, as to be afraid not to
kiss the longer, but just to remember. But the memory was deep and poignant. And they relished it for a
long time.
Eventually, very eventually. They nodded off, and it was light out, though not yet liked, and
they christened themselves as if they were settling down.
It's morning which they turned their attention to, and it was night which they turned their back
to.
He woke up and remembered something, but he didn't know what it was. He knew it was not
the weekend, so he could go to class, but that wasn't it at all. He glanced at her, and found her asleep.
This meant that he could go to sleep, at least a little while, because he had class only in the afternoon,
and her first class was in the morning. He was going to go to sleep, but she woke up just a little bit
before he could do that. She smiled, and then frowned. She wanted to have a bit more of bit of angst, so
she could forgive him a bit longer. She wanted to feel that he was punished, before he would feel
forgiven.
But he felt confused, because he didn't know why she was upset. For him, he knew that he was
forgiven, and it was a question as to why he was not totally forgiven when he got up. It was a long
time, so forgiven should be forgiven. After all, just because they had been sleeping, doesn't mean that
time was passing.
And passing.
And passing.
And finally passing, but that was all. She felt that was enough time,
You know you have dealt me something about your past, because it wasn't always fast. '
I don't what that means.
You thought that was enough, but clearly it wasn't so she tried again, but with a different angle
and verb choice. It was clear enough to her. She will have to ask slowly, and in many pieces.
Trying again, this time with feeling. You want to go again with me, right.
Yes, of course I do.
Then why don't you ask me for a date.
Why do I have do that.
Because I want to get an answer she realized that the problem was that it wasn't quite going to
plan. Every piece of the problem was identified. She would have to try again later, because she was not
going to get it right this time. Maybe next time, because it was naturally important to her. Maybe it was

important to him as well. Maybe, maybe not.

All right, I will talk to you about this, soon. he didn't know why, this was. No really, it was a
bit of ministry. He wanted no nonsense, and he didn't want other things to get in the way, but she
wanted some of nonsense or something like it. But he didn't have the patience for. And he might never
have patience, there was something about it which made no sense. No sense whatever, and he wasn't
going to bother it, whatever the cost was. He knew that it wasn't essential, not to him and not to her. It
made no sense to her if she was explaining. So he wanted to go back to the basics and explain what she
was doing, and why it was important to her. Then he realized, it wasn't important at all and she was just
going to have to live with it. Then she could get on with their life.
So they were going to half past on this, and find some agreement, but not yet.
Then they panicked. They did not know what to do.
So they went back to getting together the paper, and that took a while. It was almost done on the
math side, but there was a problem with the paper side. He realized that he was going to have a
problem with his math.
But he was going to have a problem with words, and he wanted to have some words from
another place, preferably from her stock of words. She knew this, and was chancing that he knew this
as well, with a little bit of product. What she didn't know was he wanted someone to cuddle up to, and
she wanted to cuddle up to as well, but she didn't know it.
8
In the morning she left abruptly, but that was normal. He wandered off, to look for John.
Remember this is the time when he was going to the floor the stars, and us for some backup. And this
he knew how to do. Or at least he thought he did. For maybe he didn't, and he just thought he did.
So it wasn't too hard to find John. He was over at, not at the main villa but one of the smaller
ones, not even one of the side, but to the smaller villas along Harvard Square, but among the top. If you
were looking at it from the side, view would have seen it clearly, as coming from inside the building.
Not alongside the tangled web, but alongside the cool and breezy part, uptown not downtown. This was
towards Belmont if you went up for enough. But he wasn't exactly towards uptown yet. There long bus
up from Cambridge, he was at a Starbucks two streets up from Harvard, though still up from H,
because it turns right, if you know what I mean.
There was John sipping a cup, and surprised to see him. Even though he would usually see him
he had not seen him today, and wasn't going to expect to see him, he was usually, usually, an early to
mid riser, and he was not expected to come by mid-to late.
Such are the patterns of life, in this we call the Square. This was downtown, even though it isn't
really. He showed him, that is showed John, a pile of paper with shrill papers, and abrupt signs. And
John knew that he was supposed to be there.
Is that all there is.
It is a note from Science.
Note from Science, you wrote it.
Yes, I wrote not words but the symbols, the person who wrote the text will have his own take.
He, I imagine, will not defend the text. But I will. Be doesn't realize what the implications are, but I do,
and I defend them as rigorously as the day I penned them, even if he doesn't defend them now that the
implications are explained.
But the writing is only in his name.
But the symbols were mine, and now what they speak of he will deny. And I will not deny.
You are sure that you want to put that spin, it is very controversial spin on things.
Guth will defend it.
Will depend on anything.

This time he will be right.

So what, he's been wrong before.
This time it's not.
No, this time is not.
9
MIT, what a mess it was, there was a shooting taking place. There was no time to explain; it was
all of the sudden. You see most of the time it is random shooting, boy meets girl, girl has a good time,
and then he shoots her for utterly random reasons that mean nothing to the boy and the girl. That is
what happens, the boy and girl have nothing to do with each other, but they are bonded when they
know something about each other, and form and attachments. Then they are linked and it's only when
they are linked, that something happens, and they get shot at. And only by the shooting too they have
any reason to do something to each other. And they are linked.
All right in Belmont it's not random, but in Cambridge it was random. Unless there is something
about it that says sex or violence.
So what happened that night was John was talking to Gio, passed they were passing through, a
long way from it, and they were passing through Central Square, no, really, that's Central Square, not
central square, and they chanced upon a shooting which was in no case part of their story. But they
chanced on it, and it was central to their accident, this was random, and random notice means
modernity, because modernity makes this happen, but not too random people, that would be pastoral, of
slow burn which has a certain flair to it. Randomness means that it happens, and it is slow burn,
hyperrandomness is not common, but common enough. It's kinetic. In the 1700s, it is common because
it is not random. Randomness is 19th century and beyond, where it's truly random, before it was not
truly random at all. Maybe China, it was truly random, but everywhere else it was not. By the 20th
century, it was truly random, and you know it, wasn't a question it was an answer. That leaves the
beginning of the 21st century, where there is a a kinetic to whether it's random or not, it can be because
it feels right. And arbitrary is out of Volk. Random is out of vote for reasons which do not touch our
narrative. But time does touch us, and meaning does touch us. It wasn't as if Dave was in position, that
would tell you that it was not truly random, and it would tell you also that it was me the author
interjecting himself, because who would do something like that?
John knelt down and didn't recognize the boy or girl, that was not unusual, because they are in
a big city, nobody knows anybody. Gio didn't know anything, but he was not truly there. The same
thing applies to everybody else, they knew something about everyone, but just a little bit. So they
started to wait around for the police, and wait they did for a long time.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
10
And waited...

B
Dasr
1
Dave was nearly dead. He was afraid, and alone. This was a problem for the text, because the
text was only two weeks from today. So he had to get moving if he wanted to have text, and is nothing
else. This doesn't effect Gio, or John. But it may perfectly effect Dave. He was expendable. And he was
expendabled.
Preferably expendable. I would like to toil and struggle, because there is a question, should I
answer, or will it be preferable to have it answered? Blankness is good, as long as it is truly blankness,
and not something else. You see, there is blindness, which strives and struggles, and it has a purpose,
and that is bad, truly bad.
But it isn't truly bad to be blank, it is enlightening to be truly blank, if he comes with a certain
sense of doing what's right. But how to know in advance, once you passed through you know, but how
to know first? That is the trick is. You see the first author wants you to know certain things, but only
tangentially, I want to speak plainly. And Dave is doomed in this book, and wants to rise again.
The first rhyming was truly effectual if you understood that reason came first, but only if you
knew what it was about, this rhyming was different in that you knew what it was about, if you first
accepted that it was about to tell you in advance. Or that is to say the first rhyme would only tell what it
was about at the end, and this rhyme would what tell you at the beginning. Hearing fairly, the truth is at
the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.
When he was 12, he recited and he went to the rock to plead his case. And they knew that he
was one of the first, if not the first. But he said that he was John, and they showed listen to the case of
which he knew, and listen. He also said that he would tell him of the case which he did not know of but
would tell him, in the time that he had.
And they listened, and then he went out and saw many visions, and took up with them and
aligned himself with the gospel. And it was good. The gospel was truly right, and his name Gio. Very
God of very God, in the highest.
Gio was gathering up a flock, to train other, and so on. He had been called to do this, and gather
feast. he trained them, and then let them do as they may, first North, then south, this time it was West,
and took matters under his hands. You have heard of the first North, and the first South was just the
same as the first North was, and then he decided to do things completely differently. Where once he
took physics, now he strove for mysticism. So he put rocks and twigs, and reached out to the West, to
prove that physics was only one choice among many.
When he looked north and South, and saw things to build with, he saw East and West things to
Build with, and it was good. He wanted their to be many things to build with in different directions, not
just north south east and west, down and up for example, though that beginning not end. We would
need other directions to cast in and then to build them. He would build 2 x 2, 4 x 4, 6 x 6, an so on. And
then on the eighth day he would rest, and it would be good. He would rest not because he wanted to,
but because he needed to.
There were other things to be done as well, and this is not understood, it wasn't for resting sake
that this would be done. He had plans, and then he realized that each plan had to be scattered. And that
would mean that there is a limit to the number of plans that he could hatch at once. So he began
plotting the number of plans that could be brought out at once, and considered a vision.
And he realized that he had a limit, which could be numbered almost exactly.
He wrote. He was Gio, not Dave. Dave was coming up from below and was thinking, because
Gio did think like that. Instead, he thought, but not exactly because he would think in symbols, not
words. Words that do not have an explanation, but must be viewed. He was in Starbucks along Central

Square. About a mile and some from Harvard Square, he had just delivered his package, one which was
about how he would defend his work, and announcing that he was the one who'd worked on it alone,
not with someone else, namely the professor whose work was on. Just him, which was not the case
when you sign it. It was 10 days from when it was written.
He didn't know what to do now. There were plenty of things to do, but he didn't know if he
wanted to do any of them. So he stood and checked them off, finding one reason or another to say no,
or maybe later. He was about to go, maybe to practice basketball or something, when they came in
having watched him and deciding whether or not he should join him, in deciding he should.
It was Dave spoke first, Hows it going. The Dave was going to go first, it was etiquette, if
nothing else, since Giorgio had gotten last, and had not been applied to.
Not bad. this was a secret, it meant them touch and go way, it isn't a good time to talk. It was
promptly ignored. He was going to ignore it, but he was going to ignore it for a reason.
The clue was noticed, and responded crisply.
'What can I do for you? there was an edge from Dave that said this had be important.
That was defending on what quality, Dave bought it was important, and then some. I wanted
to know if you have thought about something that I've asked you about before, and wanted to know if
you changed your mind on: the think it's important to change your mind on something that you have
decided on, but changed your mind, but not said so.
That depends, on what is. Do you have an example, I mean some things yes in some things no,
it will depend on what it is.
Dave thought about this, he wanted example, but didn't want to tell what exactly was the
example he was thinking of. Then he thought whether this was a good idea at all, after all it may not be.
He decided to take the chance, but where to start was the obvious question, whether it was better to
start the beginning, or want its way from a starting point which would only be obvious once he gone
through it. He decided to chance it and begin from a complete beginning, and then he realized that there
was one beginning for one person, and another beginning for another person, and no matter how he
started it would be a different start slightly for another person. He wrenched up, and wanted to begin
from the beginning, but he didn't know what that beginning was. He thought about it, and it was
obvious that he had to start out for Gio beginning, and no one else. But that means that it is reasonable,
because Gio it doesn't the one he wanted to explain it to. But there isn't anyone he could explain it to
but Gio. So he took a deep breath, and started from Gio went to the post, and handed in the manuscript,
because this could be explained to someone else.
Do you remember the manuscript I sent in.
Which one, is it the one which explained why I did what I did? Or is it something else.
That's one. I want to tell the story, if that's all right with you.
Gio said it was all right, in so many words. It was a grunt, or so it seemed.
Well, I've thought about it, and I was like to tell you the story, if that's all right. That night I
wanted to tell you a story, but it wasn't quite right. And that is because it wasn't really true.
What do you mean. it wasn't, exactly, so.
I that it was not exactly what I was trying to say.
What is it that you meant.
I don't know I think so, but I'm not sure that you mean what I mean. And that this problem.
So why don't you tell me what you mean. Then I will tell you if you are right. Is that the plan?
Or do you have a different idea entirely.
What would be, exact. Because I don't have any reason to say one way or another.
You could just not, and tell me what you mean.
Or I could not tell you, if it's all right with you.
It is matter what I think, it matters what millions of people think.
Fair enough.

What do we do now? What others think of us? Do we know what to do? Our we going to
surrender? It will be a long struggle, and we don't know if there is time yet. We don't know if there is
words for us. We don't know what is to become of us. And their isn't a question what you want.
Position, that is the secret. Position will be the the unholy act that will get us through, we think.
2
There is no memory and no time, only a place which has memory. Creeps and it grates, and it
has an annoying tendency. One word and it is done, a murmur, something that kills memory, and then
disappears. Rumors nothing more, then it's gone. And with it, the words of a phantom cry out to be
answered.
Dave was groggy. It was dry, as if something was eating at it from the inside. It was a horrible
mess, this grogginess that new no boundary. There are only nine days to go, and then it would be done
for. But he didn't know that, he was busy doing those things ,such as cornering, and embellishing. It is
amazing how much time you think you have when you don't have any time at all, but you don't know it.
He looked up, and saw, something. But he does not know what it is, though he tries, and tries.
There is something mysterious about it, it glistens and it gleams. With one hand it tries to project, and
on the other hand, it tries to protect. One nervous system tries to make sense, and on the other hand it
tries to make sense of it. This is parasympathetic nervous system reaches out, all the other hand it tries
to keep in place. If this doesn't make sense, it will in time, it will in space.
The figures, some made sense, but other figures did not make sense, but this is not surprising,
since he wasn't expecting the figures to make sense. He would have to ask John if they made sense. But
other figures a new were just plain wrong, and new amount of sense could plunged them. He noted
things down just to make sense, even if it would have weight for other hands to make sense of it all. He
then wrote down some figures just to make sure he was on the right track. Again this was largely for its
own benefit, and he would ask John if all of this was right. Perhaps John could make sense of this.
He could not make heads or tails of how the figuring ended, it was to confusing. He made notes
on this, but he could not see any way forward. Finally he made some notes which summarized his
working through everything, as precise summary of the document. As much as it could be made since
of to him. He then wrapped the document, and call Gio.
It ran and Gio answer, which was surprising, then he realized Gio always answered if he were
at home, which was very unusual.
Gio, could you give me hand. This is either a complete mess, or it is so sublime that I can't
make it out. he wanted to be sure, and realized that it would be more than polite to do so.
Sure. Sure. Sure. What to you want to know?
If was a torture to explain, everything was either genius, or an abomination, depending on
whether you read it one way, or the other. He tried to explain it one way and then another, but before he
could Gio stopped him cold, and responded in a completely different way than Dave could have
known. It really was beautiful, but I don't understand it myself. Dave then broke it down, just to make
sure he understood, which he did, mostly. He then broke it down, and got it. It was really that simple. If
only I could explain it, but sadly I can't, but it really was beautiful.
You could not believe how easy it was, as he hung up the phone.
Then he called up John, and recited Gio's explanation, and tried to clear his mind so he could
form a picture, which he wasn't very good at doing. He then realized that John was even worse, but
John had a different perspective entirely, and John and Gio lined up exactly. This was surprising, really
it wasn't surprising at all.
Then he knew it was time to hang up, and see whether or not the explanation would be there in
the morning.In the morning things could be different, they weren't but they could be. But they were not
right yet. There was something wrong, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it, something noxious or

maybe terrible, he didn't know what it was but he knew that there was something wrong, if only he
knew what was he would fix it, and claim a small little piece of the glory which now littered about his
feet. He would have claim to glory, and that would be a small enough piece for him. But what was it?
He didn't know, he could explain it, and that was all he could grasp. If only it would be that
simple, maybe it was, and he just couldn't grasp it. Or maybe it was that he could not take his side off
it. He will call John, they, he two of them, would figure it out. If it was the last thing they did.
Two of them, they were doing right. The two of them, not each of them individually, would
know how to do it.
He put on his boots and carried off with his papers, and he went out to John's place. And when
he got there, he was in tears, he couldn't do the one thing he wanted to do, instead he cried. And cried.
And cried.
In they woke up, and stood there and remembered what was happening. He was asleep, though
he didn't know if he was still asleep, nor what time it was, though it was clearly morning. Is stood
about, and realized it was 9:30, give or take a few minutes. And he was at John place, and nothing had
been done, though they were trying to get a piece together. It was not to be, though they had tried.
It is no good. We've tried to get it right, and it hasn't worked. Hasn't worked Dave.
Dave looked at it, and stared at it, and that one more time into the breach, one more time, and
they would have it. Dave was not the right man for the job, but he knew something that all of them
didn't know, and that was something missing in Gio's brain. If only he could pull it out, and memorize
it, they the two of them would grasp it.
If only we knew, if only we could created. This would be the one thing that we need to
complete it. It would be an epiphany. And then a new physics could be created, and we would be near
the forefront of this new physics. Gio would be the plan, and we could stand on his shoulders. And it
would be beautiful, more beautiful than they could imagine.
Why did you ask him. He's not so in love with himself, as either you or I am.
Dave realized this was actually true. he wouldn't have the back at all, Gio would happily give
everything, and ask nothing in return. Truly, nothing in return. Gio was just that way.
You know, you're right. But you'd have to explain, and that gets me back to the original
problem. We can't understand his language, and he won't gain to understand ours, if it comes to that.
John looked at the problem differently. We just need to write an addendum, and that will be
that. We only need to sketch out a doctrine, and that will be that. And then we can feed this to the
people who we want it to be had to.
John was right, they just need to hold addendum, and that would really be that. But there was
still the problem, they would know what to ask, or say, to make the addendum work. But that was a
problem which could be within their grasp because they could sense the problem.They would not
understand the problem just fixed the sites on the problem. And they could do. Or at least they would
get the first crack at the problem. And that was all they could wish for.
At first they tried doing the obvious way and get away with answering the question as
unanswerable. But that actually begged the question, and left it to the same devices. You see the
problem is that physics is in two dichotomies, the physics of gravitation, and the physics of the very
very small space which talks equation of positive and negative forces, which are a duality, not a
plurality. They tried again, but it did not stick. They realized, just as time was relative in some cases,
and unitary in other cases, it would be the same way here. They just had to figure out where the
breakpoint was. But they didn't to do that, really, they just needed to figure out where space-time was
unitary in one sense, and where it was not. And then they can turn back the clock, and show that it was
a space-time continuum until it wasn't. And that will be that, a problem that would not be fixed, until
the moment it was.
You see, it was two years when he had a plan, two years when he knew what he wanted, music,
drawing, or physics, but which would be dominant, and therefore professional, and which would

hobby, and therefore something that he could do in spaces between work and which was something to
muse his pen, while not taking seriously. He didn't know, what he knew now, and that was the
difference. He didn't really know what he wanted, but that time he was in a daze about which sort of
things he wanted. He was working on physics and tossing and turning between the other two, but he
didn't know which would be really dominant. So he was doing with physics, and dropping it by the
wayside, and focusing on drawing has his focus.But he thought of physics and he made some notes on
it, just a case.
Now he took out the physics notebook, and thought about it. He was obsessive about keeping
order, much more than other people. He was obsessive to the point that other people claimed he knew
more about their sub disciplines than he did. He took out a notebook, and looked, and looked, until he
knew what he was looking for. He finally found it, and page by page, found the key ingredient. He
noted things, and when he was done new that this was part of the key, but he needed more to go on than
this. He realized that this was an answer but not the complete answer that he preferred. John new that
this answer was close, even before he pointed this out to him. They read the page together just to be
sure that this was close but not too close. They really first apart, and then together, and it was clear that
they were on to something, and they thought they were close. To turn the screw, maybe half the turn,
and they would have. John spoke first.
We have called Gio, even if he will tell them that, because this is important.
Dave hesitated, this would be the one chance, even if with John, that he could have no trace
Gio's involvement in what was about to occur. He has stated, and then said that he would like to try
again, have mumbling so he would not get a response as yet, because he also knew that John wanted a
crack at it as well.
John kept looking at page, and seeing oblivious, saying in effect, that he too wanted one last
chance. So they both kept digging for an answer, another one saying anything, another one to denying
anything. It was just smooth as silk, if you'd asked them they would say that neither one had any idea
that they had done anything wrong. They had both stared, and assumed that the other one wanted a
little bit of time. That's how these things happen: each one assumes the other one wants a little bit of
time, but doesn't admit they wanted time as well.
But both had not claimed the prize, no one had admitted, but both new that nothing was going
to be resolved, without Giorgio involvement in the plan. So they, each one. went to sleep, drifting away
without doing anything wrong, but to me nothing right. Dave however new, at least on some level, that
he was going to wake up, and tell Gio, that everything would've been different had they just asked him
over the night before. John was not going to tell him that, because his response would have been
different, he wanted not crack at Gio, but a refining of the main point.
So people slept, John slept soundly, but Dave, Dave didn't because he knew that Gio would see
things clearly, clearly enough to know what the problem was, an get to work on it, even if he didn't
know what it was at first, he would know was that was causing the ache in the brain which would set
him off. Which Dave wouldn't have known, and wishes he would. Its somewhere on this page, penned
so many years ago, if only he'd had Gio's idea to go on. But he didn't, and he only grasped tangentially
what it was. Only tangentially, and that was not good enough, though it was real the less. If only he
would grasp the obvious, because it was obvious, but not to you nor to me, but Gio there was. But
neither John nor Dave wanted to bring it to him, at a time, and a place. Because Gio wouldn't see the
problem until it was pointed out to him, and he would not be a problem at that point.
They woke at 3 p.m., it was very late indeed. But Gio was still asleep, John was still asleep, and
Dave, wasn't going to wake them. He wanted one crack, 30 minutes, but it wasn't going to help him.
3:30, and all was calm.
3

While this was going on, Gio was doing nothing about it. He thought that it was done, and he
could go on to his next thing. Realize that he didn't do things as you and I do things, he did things and
then he moved on to his next problem. You and I would laze about, doing nothing in particular, and
then start on something a few days later. That wasn't John's way and it certainly wasn't Gio's way of
doing something. He wanted to get things done immediately after he did the the last thing, with a new
perspective and effort. That doesn't mean that he was active, in fact quite the opposite, he was trying to
do things which should not being done. One time he would be doing philosophy, only with a twist, and
that would be fine to him. It was not quite so fine for the people reading the result, they didn't think it
was funny, and either they thought it was an extreme case of very funny behavior, or it was being
shocking and monumentally unfunny. You wouldn't know what you were getting into, even when you
gotten in to it. One person did get it, and was Julia, of course. Not that she found everything funny, but
she knew what was funny, what was dramatic, and what was fantastical. And she could explain to him
why it wasn't funny, and he would listen very closely, and either revise, throw it out, or something else
entirely.
And that was what he wanted.
The other thing that he wanted was something that he didn't want - he wanted everybody to be
on the same cover, but he couldn't tell them why unless they got it. And people didn't get it, and it was
really annoying, most people didn't want to get one, mostly they set what is it good for, they didn't see
why the tablet is good enough. Why all the bother, or why all the convenience, why all the fuss with
people could just use good enough. People said that he didn't understand, and talked as if there was
some easy feeling, that you just get it.
But there were very few people who did get it, most people just fudge or made do, or didn't
have a problem, they just hid until they didn't have hide. There were a few people that, mostly in New
York, and a scatter the people in Boston, Philadelphia, and such places, but not LA, SF - of the cool
kids refer to it as SF, rather than the boring San Fran or something - and most especially, definitely, not
the cool kids of Seattle, who were almost most boring people in all the world. And forget about all of
those towns, Houston for example. Who made up some really truly strange place, which didn't even
have the ZIP code. Anyway, does ZIP code even matter? Most people only talk to people whose code
they know. It is only a few people who really know the ZIP codes of people who don't matter.
Know the ZIP codes of, for example, Kalamazoo? I certainly don't, and I don't think you do as
well, unless you live here there, or have a friend who does. But Gio does, he even knows things like the
other codes, and that is truly something, for example what does London use for a ZIP code? It's almost
like one, but not quite, unless you use it quite frequently, you would have to look it up, as I just did.
Its these sorts of things that lie in the head Gio he is sleeping. And equations, such equations
that they don't have an answer to you or I, but mean intensely more than it could possibly be imagined.
Than he woke up, and there was another difference, he had it in his head equations and
formula, and only gradually thought of the words that goes with them. People don't, unless their odd
sorts of people, truly odd sorts of people like me, for example. Normal people think in other words, and
don't do anything else. But there are a large fraction of people who do things differently.
Gio was one of these people.
He was getting up, he didn't brush, he didn't come his own hair, in fact he did nothing which
would make him look at any way presentable. He got down on to the lowest level, and sauntered away
as if nothing would happen. He wasn't a bum, because all of his close were new, and the were
presentable, and clean, but he didn't look like he cared much about how he looked. The close were in
fact pretty decent, more than just clean. They weren't jeans, but chinos, and they were washed and
dried. He also wore a good shirt, never washed. But there was something ratty about this, though you
could exactly what it was.
It was cold, a little chilly as it were. It wasn't March, but it might as well have been. April is a
strange month, this one a little stranger then most stranger, it might have been February. It also might

have been May, was one of those months where you have the look at the calendar. There was a bit of
what the Arabs call wolfs-tail, blurring from the edge of twilight. He walked out, no difference to him,
some people wearing summer pants, other people were as cold as ice, wearing two pairs of pants. It
was that sort of day, every one at this hour was in there on time zone, doing what they did not want
minding other people.
Their was no malice, so that didn't stop him from going to the next door neighbor, and gathering
newspaper, which was in fact all advertisements with just a hint of news from the local blocks. In any
case, he didn't want any news, just the crossword, which je ne sais quoi - indescribable, it was just
indescribable. There was nothing to do, but that was not his plan, it would do for now.
It was light out, and he was on the grass, lolling about the grass. He didn't know when he did,
but he was staring at of the sun is. The first time he took trouble to see, and notice, that it was
interminably early, the one respecting the spring, and realized that it really was spring, glorious spring.
He realized this and when back to do something else entirely, forgetting that spring had ever even
entered his mind. You have to realize, this was nothing unusual to him, though it would be unusual to
read one else that you knew. But you would have to realize because, that is who he was, and almost no
one was like him at all.
He thought about many things, mixing time with space and other things that would not be
describable. He turned and thought, and their was a thread: it was not one thread but two, each twined
as with DNA. And then it was gone, but he had something in mind, if only he knew what it was. Then
he thought of it again, and instead of holding it in his mind he memorized it, turning each thread over
itself to keep. And again and again, so he could remember this, and then it was gone, just a memory.
Then they stood up, because there was a man standing in front of them. If he were disheveled,
man was positively homeless and broke. Their was remains in his pockets of string, another assorted
things in bunched up. He had different attachments which said that they didn't have any particular use.
On his feet he had different shoes, though they were at least match. It was odd assortment to be
carrying around, and it was morning, which made it very odd indeed. Gio knew quite, and greeted him.
So to Gio the was not odd in place, he was professor, so people knew him by reputation, though they
didn't square this with his dubious demeanor.
Is it going?
The professors name was hard to identify, it was Green, but not exactly, he would remember he
thought. But in fact he wasn't going to remember for long. He did remember his first name was George,
so that is the name he addressed by.
How is it going with you. this wasn't the way homeless nobody talked, and was a clue that
this was someone important, even if he did not look important.
I'm doing some things, and I hope there important. But I don't know if they are.
They are important even if they don't seem so.
Do you really believe it?
Why yes, I really do believe it, even if no one else does. Sometimes only one person in the
cosmos will believe it, until one day everyone does.
Gio want to go in about the idea that he had, this was pure physics, because that is what Prof.
enjoyed speaking of. But he didn't know if it was the appropriate time, but he spattered it out, even
though he did not mean to.
I had this conception, or have way too one.
Yes, I'm listening.
Imagine for a moment, there isn't one position in space, but two.
What would that be. I mean, it could mean many things, what do you want to mean.
If you or I explain this, there would be many possibilities. And each one of them would expand
on many pages, each one of which would be different. But you or I weren't Gio or George, who wanted
more detail, and only wanted one particular point. You or I would expand on this point, and run with it,

Gio or George would hone in on it, get to a sharp point. That is the difference between you or I, and
people like George, or Gio.
Equations, not words or letters, wrapped the dialogue. They were bound up, because equations
not words were the typical things that formed the meaning of what was bound up. And George was
privy to its glamour, and he knew it. It is difficult to explain how was to word people what the
difference was, or perhaps, there were so many pieces to explain. At first, it made no sense to word
people, because word people didn't even know the meaning of symbols. But gradually they they got it,
if only tangentially. Want the really wanted was a word person, who could translate words to symbols,
and symbols to words.
That's very interesting. George replied as he got the general drift of it. But you really need to
get someone to talk to who would know. he meant finding someone with words, and translating them
could verify and then they would all know what they all meant. Problem was that symbols and words
didn't exactly mean what they thought.
Gio nodded, then said. I think I need John's opinion, that would be the logical thing to do.
John would be helpful to your case. It's really too bad you didn't have an here. you have to
understand, George wanted John here, not because John was important, but because he wanted words
and symbols next, and John was good for doing that in a conversation. But he wasn't, so Gio and
George but him off until they could have his opinion, really what they meant was he could translate,
and tell the two of them if they were right. They would have this conversation in two or three days,
they thought. They would pick it up then, not realizing that they wouldn't have many days left.
There were many other avenues, but they were not particularly fruitful. They talked, perhaps for
an hour or so, and then parted ways, with Gio giving his new number, before going off. Since it was
still morning he decided to go along Memorial Drive, which was beautiful, an had one path which was
not paved at this particular moment, and was never more than a brook in any event. There was
something new about it, something extraordinary. It was glorious, he just realized that. He checked in
his pockets, and new he had just enough money to get something at Au Bon Pain, and eat it while
walking. He just had to walk from Memorial Drive to Harvard, which was totally different, because he
was on the Central Street side of the town. So that is what he did, going along to Harvard Street, and
avoiding John, because he didn't want to talk to him right now, even though he knew he would
eventually. He got to Central Square, because there was nothing between Harvard and Central Square,
though he did look, there was very little there, if you didn't like a pub or three.
He checked his watch, and realized why it was so busy. It was 8 o'clock, and people were out
and about by that hour. He therefore intently walked by the avenue which was to John's place, and he
didn't think of it after that. Intent on his work, and that was that. As was anyone, at that time of day.
Or almost anyone.
Then when he reached Central Square, he paused. If he did Central Square, then he would be
near enough to John, and he didn't want that. Go straight and it would be long way to MIT, and he
didn't want that either. So he turned right, straying his thoughts, some literal, but mostly figuratively.
2, not 1, 2, not 1. Connections which were not connections, strain in different directions. 2, not
1, not all of the time, but every single time, absolutely every single time. It was religion with him. Not
every second, nor every single minute, but every minute of every hour, he was going to get it right, if it
was the last thing he did. And he didn't mean that figuratively, but literally. So he tried one thing and
another, is pattern was to keep going twice pattern, just make sure he hadn't tripped up somewhere.
That was his day, trying pattern after pattern, though he didn't know what was working, he
knew what patterns were not working, and that was important. He believed that, because Yale
University, in its school for the bright people, knew that that was important, and Young to breach the.
gospel, even though there were many other good Samaritans, that time is money, and you on to waste
time on trivial things. He knew this because while other people were trying to wax poetic about why
they needed to have a bit more of it, he had read, upside down, to note young as a pretty fair - note that

pretty fair not extraordinary - example. So he read a small little book about time is money, which was
copiously filled with examples. He read in a quarter of a half hour, which was half the time, and he
remembered everything the first time through.
And then he knew what to do. He would have to do it, he would tell everyone else to do it, and
he would tell them to remind themselves that this was how it was done.
4
It was noon, and some people, such as, on this particular day, but not every day, were going to
bed such, as Gio, who had done all his work. While other people such as John were staring down the
second meal of the day. Then there was Dave, who was just getting up, having had the wee hours to
himself. In other words, they were not together in space. That is curious, because there is doing no
dimensionality, even if you include space-time, which works this way, but humans do so, none the less.
It is with Dave we stick with, because today is just like tomorrow in the scheme of things Gio,
and John, but not Dave. They had been together to days ago, when they both slept in. but John had to
get up, where has Dave could sleep in. seems interesting to me anyway, that it would be John,
therefore, who would have the more productive day. And if you looked at it very close, that would be
your conclusion. But in long run, Dave was dying, and so all the trivial things went by the wayside,
even though the trivial things piled up one week, ago one day ago, as before. And on these matters,
there was one thing which was absolutely important.
Where's my dinner. All with that is something that happened in the dream. Was why we all
retrieved, just He wanted to feel, something, only he didn't know what was it was. He only knew it
was going to be, different, unique, and totally, totally ,wonderful.
Grasping, hoping, could be, different. As if something currently new was going to strike in, and
in that moment he drew, and everything was not the same anymore. He was drawing, for last time. He
didn't know it was last, but you that it was the first time, drawing this. And that made it special, if only
just for him. He switched from darker shades of umbra, to unique shades that were not even realized,
because they were not black and white, colors. How to describe these colors, were they plain? Where
they fancy? All of the above, and then some. He could see Gauguin, in the twilight, he could see
Renoir, and its color from where he didn't know, but it come to them if he gave it just a little bit time.
He saw so many different aspects but they were all the same, because they were of Impressionism, and
he realized that that time was passed, and he would have events things that were totally different.
Cezanne here and there, for varieties sake.
He didn't know where to begin, and then he realized he had begun, and he was striking out in to
new territory, which was unexplored. But it would have its first explorer, and soon other people would
see things differently, and they too would try things differently, first copy, then enriching, and then
doing what they placed with it. He was just first, and he hoped one of many, but he wouldn't know,
until after words. But sooner or later, he will be copied, and plagiarized, and everything under the sun,
until finally true genius will be recognized, and he will be one of the Pantheon. And people will say it's
too bad he didn't live so long. To bad, as people sip their fruit punch, and move on to the next topic.
Heard the telephone ring, and then it stopped, and then it started again. He made it up is mind,
that he would get up and answer the telephone. But it never rang. Annoyed, he got up and checked the
message. It was John, and either he could answer, or not, or he could wait and pick up the message. He
decided that picking up message, when he decided to do it, would be his course. Gio would then wait
and call back almost immediately, but not the case with Dave, who would let it wait when he was good
and ready to do so. In the meanwhile, the real case was with the painting, and the new that four
paintings would be the results. But first he would have to make sketches, and drawings.
The design was ornate and complex, as was his want. Their was texture, so as to bring light
from the backdrop, into the foreground. And each one wanted to have one figure or two figures, he

wasn't sure yet. Yet he knew this was crucial, and he wasn't going to make mistake of trying one way
and then trying the other way, he had to make the decision - because this was the moment that he was
waiting for. He twirled up his pencil, and for just a moment decided. He decided that spring would have
one, summer would have two, fall would have three, and in the deepest calls of snow, there would be
one again.
There would be pages, and pages, and he would start to sketch for figures. He started with
spring, with Monet, and Dgas, and all of the rest of them who were bouncing with spring in their
fingertips. As I said, he wanted brightness in this first foyer, getting darker as he reached fall, but not
yet. Here everything was bright, and there was a wanting that everything would be different. Than he
for Cezanne, and and found one that he wanted, It was right, and while the object was form, he had
made it so it could not be man or woman, though the original picture was clearly male, he did not want
it to be so enraptured as to tell.And it was not before that one could tell, that rather obliquely was not
the first thing you saw.
Foreground background. This was the concept of the first, on the left winter, on the right,
summer. And in the foreground was arrest, has coming to light. On left darkness, and on right,
brightness. Nobody knows like the author what kind of painting it is, but no one knows less than the
author, how it's going to object to the audience. This was the case in this instance, he knew what he
wanted to project, but not what he wanted. But he had the vision, that each one was intertwined, and
being intertwined, it had a kind of brightness and vision which was three dimensional in nature. And in
so being was fluttering off the page, and into the eye, where it was processed and recorded.
It was not only beautiful to him, but to many other peoplTreated as text now havee, when they
looked at it. But they would have to look at it, first. Some things work slowly, and not always to the
benefit of small people. But that is for another place in tail. For now it was beautiful and he didn't care,
and what's more, he didn't want to care if other people cared, he just wanted it to be beautiful for him,
that was enough. He sent back and noted that one was completely done, and one was mostly done. But
there were only sketches of the last two, so instead of tackling summer he went on to fall. Because fall
was a different kind of project. Where as the two seasons were rich and ripe, this one was right only in
the first half, and then gets rockier from their. Fall was was a puzzle, on the left hand side it was
veritably ripe, wall on the right side, it glistened but was dead. Dead as a door nail, with teeth rattling
around the pavement. He had made sketches, but none of them were good enough, none of them had
enough grit for the right half, and none of them had the sense of what was both cloyingly sweet in the
texture. How can one have both richly textured, and bare simple at the same time?
He did not know at the moment, but he would in time. Ordinarily he would stop, but now he
was not going to stop, he had no exactly what to do. You see, he knew that the joints were not the place
you wanted to take those measurements, but after the fact. That way you have already started, and it is
easier. It is the pain which is the measurement. Pain was prophecy, once you can get around that all,
else is easier.
The left was the easier side to do with, because he had done many sketches. What was different
was that it was sickly in its aspect. Cloying dystopic, and that was going to be the aspect underneath the
whole picture, starting slowly on the left side, and then hardening to a fine point. It was not the picture,
but color with that form, that was going to change very slowly, while foreground would go from light
to darkness, this would be different. From one side to the other, it was going to be the same, this, he
now knew it, was going to be the centerpiece of the picture.
Then something happened, the doorbell rang. So he answered, right away. He checked the
phone, and realized that John had called him three times today, which was for John, a lot of times. Then
he saw John's face on the corner of window, and he didn't need to check the messages, he knew that
they were worried, as worried as John could get, that is. Dave shot out the clients that he was fine, and
altered to door.
How is it going?

John fumbled with his keys, absentmindedly really because there was no key slot which did
anything to them. I was just worried. He didn't show up for the class you had, and since that is 3:00 ,
and at the end of the day since you don't usually take night classes, it was worrying that you weren't
there. That's all.
As you can see. I'm fine. he didn't mean to be polite, but he saw that John wanted to come in
so he said: Would like to come in? Even though he didn't really want John to come in. John merely
nodded and sprang up, clearly he wanted some attention to be paid. So John was coming in, but he
didn't know whether he was listening or being listened to. It didn't matter to John, in point effect, but it
made a difference to Dave, not all the time, but now it did. But Dave didn't say so, exactly. There were
the sound which someone who knew Dave would know, and of course John was one of them, which set
that he would rather be at his work.
Maybe he could push along, and get back to the real task at hand. At least he could try. is
there anything that you want.
John was going to launching to tirade, but then he stopped and stared. The pictures were on the
wall of the foyer, spring completely done, summer almost done, but only sketches of fall and winter.
Always sketches of the last two were arresting. He stared at them intently, and looking back at John, he
cleared his head and said When did you do these two?
They were done today. Only today.
John looked at them a new, picking apart and realizing that there was a great deal of work to be
done. But today, that is amazing. Simply amazing. John looked at them as if they were finished works,
even though he knew that they were not. He didn't know what to make of them, but they were
revelatory nonetheless. He looked at each one, and then the whole, deciphering as he went. These were
not sketches, nor were they the individual, nor were they An amateur group of paintings, which were
litered across the canvas. They were true individual works, as if they were stepping off the the
paintings, and to life itself. Spring was amazing, it was true to life, and just simply extraordinary. So
was summer. And even fall and winter one could see that they, if there were anything like the art that
they were coming from, would be unique and different. This could have been museum quality, if they
were finished properly.
All review to these, and come back late tomorrow. See how you're doing. These are more
important, and I don't want to get in your way.
You're sure? Now the talking was the other way, and he was eager to your more about his own
work.
Yes, I'm really sure. I'm sorry to bother you, it's glad that you have gotten your head around
painting. Your head back on the ground, and not wasting time with the mathematics. John didn't
realize that the map was a gift Dave had hoped to develop, but he did understand that painting was a
gift, that gave back to the world. I'm really sorry to disturb you, I shouldn't. and he really meant this.
And so John was lost, and gone without a trace. Dave didn't know what to make of this, first he
didn't want to have him stay, and now he was eager. The only thing to do, was to his go back to his
paintings. But it was a long time before he could do that, a long time because he tried many things
before getting back work.
It was John's turn to think, for a moment. He never believed that Dave was really meant to do
physics, of course he would want him to do that only as a sideline. Really painting and sculpture were
his two main vices, and he meant that as in some novel kind of way, complementary. It was just that it
was so extreme. He didn't know what to make of it, if anything. He wondered if he was dysfunctional
in some way. He knew that Gio was, how did one put it, out there. But he always thought that even if
not totally grounded, he was at least saning. Now he was not so sure, and that worried him. Spring as
Monet, summer as Cezanne, that was all right he supposed. But fall, was different. And don't even think
about winter, that was yet an thing entirely.
So John left, and even though it required some effort, Dave went back to work.

I don't know what to say, exactly, everything with order, Gio cast his dice along certain lines,
not knowing what would become them. Dave obsessed along certain lines, which became hard and fast
as they were becoming solid. And John and Julia managed to study and good could grades. From the
point of view of the staff, Dave was mentioned to get accepted but not unusual grades, John was getting
exceptional grades, Julia was getting a nominal grades. And then there was Gio, who probably was not
even study the material. And so Gio was going to be talked to, if only someone knew where he was. He
didn't want to know, and so he was. But it was not for want of trying.
There was only one day left until Dave would finally die. It's interesting, because obviously in
this short story, Dave is not the main character, but fulcrum around which others could arrange them
selves, seeking some sort of balance. But he didn't realize, and he was in his head the main character of
his particular story, one which he told himself. He was thinking that he was the character, and everyone
else stood round waiting for his, or her, turn. But he was the main character, and he would find this out.
If only for a brief instant.
It's too bad really. If only I arranged it so the main character was Dave, you could see him
working very hard at being the main character. But I haven't, and why I haven't was be made sense.
There is of course reason, and this is the chapter which I will reveal it. Gio is a savant, he is and is not,
the main character. He would be the main character, but he doesn't make any sense. Dave could make
sense, and you would think I would tell the story about him. Or John is the main character, together to
sides of Gio, and Dave. But he is boring. Now the main character has been introduced to, and won't be
so for a very long time.
It is only by removing one of my active characters, and disabling the other one, which will truly
make it alive. Now I could, if I wanted to, treat wheels and wheels, setting up a character and is
devices, and then do so again, and that would make sense, only if you wouldn't really make any sense
at all, because it would be silly. And silly is the point of this tale.
No point of this tale is to describe the accident, and realize there is a point, which I will make
him do course. But think about the subject, and realize there is in fact a point. Starting from the first,
there is a narrative, centered around Gio, and rolling up through the characters interesting on the one
character which has not been described yet. Just realize that Dave is going to die, and that will trigger
events which will wreck the foundation. Because that is the plot.
And remember all things you been told, because all the are important. Every single one of
them. The plans, the events, all meaningful.
5
John decided that he would have to find out what was going on, it had been three days, and he
was worrying about Dave. He stood out side and waited, and waited, and waited. He rang the doorbell
several times. And then he waited some more. If it had been just worried, he would come around
tomorrow. But that was yesterday, today he was worried and he was going to do something. So he
decided to spring over to the window and see if anything was going on. Window opened up to the
stairs, and saw nothing. He dropped down and rather than knocking opened by brute force. He knew
that to other roommates were going away, but unless he missed his guess, Dave was going to be one
who stayed.
So he tried going long way round, and seeing what he could find out. At first, not much. Then
something sickening happened, he didn't want it to be so, and he hoped wouldn't be so. But deep in
side, he saw something which was truly offensive. It was state, line on the floor, and a new, not
unconscious.
It was grizzly, is head was broken in two, there was no way that it could be anything other than
death. And not pretty little death, but broken in pieces around the skull kind of death. It had been at
least a day, and no one had known. He dropped back down, and shook, and then vomited. This was not

the sort of way which he would have wanted anyone, least of all his best friend, to come to terms.
When he scrambled, he realized that Dave new he was going down, and for an instant new that this was
coming. And that made him even sicker.
He didn't know what to do, and that made it worse. He realized one day, Dave was really the
best friend he had at college. And that made it even worse. Somehow he didn't think it could be made
worse, but it had. Finally, he knew what to do, it was obvious actually, so he did. He didn't call Julia, he
called Gio, and explained to him that his friend would be call, ever again. If had to sink through into his
brain, because Gio had difficulty with space and time. John had described three times, before it had
gotten through. He was not certain if that was because he was smart, or dim. But then it only takes very
short while to explain this, but a very long time to understand this, John for example realized that he
was sitting on the doorstep, and looking at Dave, and retreated around the back side as if nothing had
happened.
Then you realize that be knew from the beginning that David was dead, he had seen it from
foreground, and he didn't register any. He saw what looked like the body, and then it can that he took in
every detail. He knew from the beginning, and he knew that he knew, but wasn't responding to it quite
yet. Every detail was timely etched, just waiting for the time when it was clear.
He threw up, more viciously than before, because he knew what had happened anyway, which
demonstrated consciousness. And that made it worse, made it twice as ill as before.

c
Mary Magdalene
1
There is a great deal more time to be gained by doing something once, and only after many
things have been done three or four times, but you don't know which ones which were necessary. This
is the conundrum: it is a great deal more difficult to do one thing as well, and it's a great deal easier to
do many things poorly, so you have to find what is better for you , individually, to do what you can do.
I a be able to do many things at once, badly, and you should do one thing, and vice a versa. There is the
peak and then trundling down through your life, and everything becomes a mess for you when you pick
up certain disabilities. And then you're stuck, and everything is both badly done and poorly done, all at
once. These people, young and strong, not able yet to realize that things are going to be difficult for
them all, do not know this and think everything can be done both many and quickly all of one. There in
for a rude surprise in 30 or so years.Ah, to be young and stupid, those are the best years of life, unless
you all the stupid things you do.
It was full, many weeks since last we met. There are only a few people who talk about Dave,
you was not popular, though some aspects of his work are creeping in to the vocabulary, and forming
part of the deal, though only a small part of it. But for most people, he was not important at all to your
daily living existence. To of these people were not Julia, and Gio, who thought about him, and
wondered what would have become of him.
Julia sighed, and something almost came out of her mouth, but not quite yet. Gio looked
quizzically, and so Julia started to tell him about the feeling that she had had.
I wonder if Dave would have been here, and tell us to get on with things. Or whether he would
have said to us to remember him. And what difference would it have made, things being as what they
were.
What difference would that have made, things are as they are.
That is one difference, you take the past as best, and Dave a different tact entirely. He thinks
past has having made possible features, and you don't.
That is because I know the time doesn't reach back, in but a few versions of the present, in
those predefined by time, and he feels that time forwards and backwards are the same thing.
Why is that, do you suppose?
Because I think about time away physics does. And time running forwards is a great deal
different from time running backwards. Dave didn't feel that way, the time running forwards in time
running backwards, were the same thing.
You know it's really good that you have gotten better since you took the medication, your
almost human, though not quite. It rather shows ,most of the time.
He pretended, though it was obvious, that he didn't listen to that. Instead he rambled on about
how time was different. He was saying something about time as it existed in physics, and time as it
displayed in the imagination, when he stopped and stated to trace out in symbols, and then he raised it,
and realized it wasn't important. And then eatable tract, because in the bits and pieces, he could smell
something, something important. So he started over again, which was not unusual for him, trying
different ways. Julia knew this mode of his, and instead of interacting with him, she just waited.
Finally, he said. Last year I would have just gone on, and I still do. But now I know that it's
something in my brain, and it isn't something that I can do anything about. Thank you for not doing
anything, because it is important some of the time. I like my brain this way, even though it is his
ordinary way of doing things. Before medication it was every day, every second I would have to do
things differently. Now it still a lot of the time. Though the doctor feels I should be better, there's a

definite difference between feeling the need to think about something, and really sensing something
important.
It's all right, I knew you were different, and I knew that medication was part of that, even
though it wasn't the whole part of it. I'm just glad it's better for you now.
It has been better, even though it make it worse. Medication will get flaky, and even stop
working, until you try different pill. with that he took to those and he swallowed them. He didn't even
use water, which was entirely gross to her mind. He didn't care, which made him different.
Then he made a deep deep scratching. She coughed , not on her, but him. Though he was not
fine, he raised his hand, to tell her that was enough. She didn't believe him, and cough him up again.
This time when he raised his arm, she believed, and stopped coughing.
You, really ought to do something about that.
It's fine, really it's fine.
She looked at him, and her face said that she didn't really believe him.
Tell me another story, why don't you?
He started to take her seriously, and then she whispered that she did really mean it. He was
puzzled, but took her word for it. It was odd for him, because really he knew almost nothing about her
and yet she was the most important person in his life. He looked at her very intensely, and longingly.
More than other people were, even if they had some amount of intention. She, for her part new that he
was the most wonderful man, even if he was strange and interminably intense in his manner. There was
no one like him, because he knew physics intensely, and she only knew ones which were twice her, or
more, age. And she wasn't the kind of person who went in for those older people, though she knew a
bunch of women who were. There were nasty, and quite frankly didn't know much about the topic at
hand.
They were staring, they were staring and erect, steering straight into each other with wide eyes.
And for the first time Gio wanted to kiss her. Which was into truly strange. He realized that that to was
involved somehow with a change, in knew that that would not have been on his mind, but it was on his
mind now.She was beautiful, and that was the first time he knew it. How many strange thoughts
occurred in his head, only other people wouldn't have thought them odd if they were in is shoes, most
people, even strangers, would have seen them as a couple, if only they had looked at them. Indeed Julie
have had been flirting with him, intensely, for as long as she could remember. Again it was medication
that pulled Gio in to this. This was a strange world, for him. All of the senses were different, tastes,
colors, everything.
It was fall, but the temperature was close to summer, in most of the time, though in fits and
starts fall was still reaching its way. They were coming up to Harvard Square, along Harvard Street,
which is to say bend in the road, because they were on the outside of town going inwards. They like
any other couple, holding hands, though he just noticed this, and gossiping with each other.
Than they had to cross over from Law School, over to the main undergraduate area. There were
many people, all of them coming and going, all of them in the main quad or coming from inside the
quad out to the fresh air. And it was indeed fresh air, though it was not as warm as it was just a few
weeks ago. The temperature was dropping, and if you check the leaves, they were almost intimately
turning red over a few leaves, but just a few. It was the beginning of fall, and the end of the summer,
both at once.Once inside the quad they saw the inside, covered with leaves, and branches. She belonged
here, he did not. She had transferred, and he was able to do some things, but just barely. But you would
not know this, they were both fitting in to where they were, and that was not precisely true of most
people.
They were not going anyplace exactly, and he looked at the boards, to see what was on offer
there, though most things were dull and more. Than on one of the side boards, he saw something that
caught his eye: up at the other end of Brattle, their was grouping to not only see the stars, but a
gathering of sorts, and you that while they were not mentioned, there would be some interesting people.

You see people who are mentioned gather group round, and they are mobbed. It is only when they don't
want to be noticed that there are few enough people. It is an old trick, but is still works most of the
time, but not all of the time.
He stopped and it, and said: This is one I should be at, especially because they don't want you
to know about it, where as if they did they would be saying that real people don't want to come and
fake people do.
He did not copy, or anything like that, he just remembered, and that would be enough. Julia
asked: What is it, exactly? Normally they tell people, and look at the stars, because it's a mob scene.
What he did was rush her side from the area, and while not exactly hiding, essentially it was
what he did. Some pretty important people don't want to be recognized, in part because they don't
want to be recognized by other members of their club. They don't want to be recognized because they
had something important, but they don't know if it is exactly important, or it could be noise
masquerading as something important.
That means, what exactly. You weren't exactly lucid when we first were communicating, you
only spoke in symbols not words.
Well it's me not mean anything, but it main mean that there close to the theory of... I didn't
know what it is.
But your sure this is important? Really, really, important? Or just somewhat important? Or
don't you know yet.
I don't know if it is important, but I have a sense that is important. And if it is I want to be
there. he didn't know it, but it was the medication that was speaking, earlier in the year you wouldn't
have deduced what you just now deduced. And she would have not known, exactly what he meant,
though she would have guessed.
So let's be there just in case. Or do you have a guess?
I have a really good feeling, and that is that we should be there.
So let's go. When is it?
He showed her the paper, which he had taken off the wall. Which was illegal of course. But
people would copy several times, if it was not important. Anything that was important they would tell
by other means.
They cut across the quad, each one of them looking at the other, intently if nothing else. They
were in love, more and more, more and more love than when they started out together. Because
amazing, or at least his side was amazing, she knew that she was love from the first, but he did not. It is
amazing how one bird, for example, knows what she wants, cries all the more for having wanted it, and
then the male stirs up, and wants, turned starts to cry, finally realizing that he too wants her. There
hands were interlocked, twine together, as if they were married, this was not what was when they
started out, you have to see, what I saw, and then you would realize that this was the moment that they
were truly in love, and not just imagine it.Truly, they were love when he reached the other side of the
fence, which was only a quarter of mile later, but it was a huge distance when measured not by feet, but
in the heart. But no one was looking at them, people were engaged in all sorts: of friendship, and love,
and in between. No one would think anything special, but those that knew them. And that was a very
small group for her, and none-but-one for him.
Then the voice called out to them, an said: Julia. Marie, do you remember me?
Not really, but not to remember, the guess would have you, she thought. Yes. How's it going.
She wasn't really sure about it, but she would try, has if it might fit, close for example. Double down,
and see whether this fits.
Fine, and you? Gio was interested, because he knew that he was no good at this.
I was just wondering if you were going to go the mall tomorrow. she had many packages,
some from downtown, some from around here, a perfume, and other things which went along with it,
the soap which was from one of the many delectable perfume shops. And other things, but all of them

were for women.

I don't think so, why is there something important going on? And is this mall over here, or
catching the train. I can go, if not. She was already trying to get rid this person, there is obvious
because of they purse that she did. The mall is not where she wanted to be.
No it's just down here, and yes, there's something important, or I wouldn't have bothered you.
She scooped in last bit of ice cream, and disposed of it.
Gio noticed that this one knew what she was doing, which was a plus, in his eyes. And took
more than 2 to 3 seconds for her to register this. Which was good enough, many people didn' t register
this at all, but were talking all the way through the time.
What is it? Do I have to about it right now, if not why not just skip it and go on to something
more relevant?
In Gio mind, he had wondered something, he knew that the girl knew her well, but distantly,
and she was trying to drum up some support, if it had been someone else, they would have left it alone.
I was wondering, If you could join me at one, there are some new things that are coming in.
that is assuming your going to be alone, it's just a girl time.
Julia was going to say no, she had a paper which she wanted to work on, but Gio said yes,
rather emphatic yes. This was very strange, but she knew it had a point, if she had recognized it.
They swapped numbers and afterwards she said to him: I trust you're going to explain
yourself, and I mean that in an honest way, begins you have some point. Full stop, she meant that
quite literally, because that is one of the things that she likes about him. He sees something, and only in
that light does it make sense.
She had a ring on her finger, an engagement ring. Now it made sense, and she notice the ring,
of course, but she patent connected it with what was going on. She would have eventually, only he had
stopped conversation and got to point. She nestled in his arm, drawing warmth from, and clinging for
not merely want, but something more personal. He didn't describe more of the details of this
conversation, because that was important to him. It would have been more personal to Julia, but she
would not know, but she knew that they were there.
She was in some respect John Watson, to his sort of intense version of the great man. She knew
very well all flaws that he had, but the keen mind made up for all of them. She just hoped that it would
be along time before medication kicked in. That would be bad. For both of them. He did not no, nor
would he care. That wasn't what concerned him, he could go back to way he was before. It wasn't
unusual for him to have grasped their were other people who would care. Unlike Holme, he was not
formed, and didn't care if he was.
What did matter, was what her girlfriend was going to say. That was extremely interesting
indeed, because there were threads, and he wanted to know why it was that she was telling remote
friends of bits of news of her life, when she was not the kind of person who did so. You see, most
people didn't tell any of her friends, or they would gather every one in to there tribe, but these kind of
people don't expect most people to care. But she was different, and that made it unusual. So he
bookmarked a shelf in his inner mind, and went on to other things. Things that were obvious to him,
but not to anyone else, though his girlfriend wanted to know them.
Every one in this universe is the same way, but most don't immediately care about the intense
issues, as he did.
That was unusual, I hope you'll tell me why you wanted me to go with her.
He reacted only , as if writing in a dream sequence. Its obvious that she wants to get together,
with people who are not exactly friends. And there is more, why does she want to get together with
these people.
How do you know that there will not be closer friends than I, or other people.
Because her true group of friends went up just today.
How do you know that?

All of the gifts are from people, or for herself, and all of them are perfume in such, which are
hers. There is no set of matriarchal goings on. That, to me, is interesting. It also means that her close
friends were all there together.
That means that her close friends were there, but how does that mean that they weren't also
going to be at the party tomorrow.
Because soap and such cover all of the span, from high to low.
So she could just have... And then she stopped, she was going to say ice cream, but she was
having some. Why wouldn't she have some people from today?
She would have just said would you like to come to a party. But she didn't, now this she?
It was clear that he was a good deal more lucid than ever, and that the was not going to be
expressly attuned for other purposes, such as dropping in a friends, or really of half friends, in their
existence. There are more important details, and she should make it for duty to attend to those details.
Though it was still morning, it was rather late morning, drinking in the sunlight. They had left
quad, and were on the street.
This is Harvard Square. he is all of grandeur, when it was squeaky clean, after it was not so
noticeable as being a dive in certain places. But even the dive was gone for about 15 years, and even
though it was better than before, it was a bit staid in its goings on. It was passed its prime, though only
a few people could see it. Consider for example, another corner which didn't really have a name yet,
but was hottest place to go. It is Harvard Square, or Central Square, or Porter Square, it was the square
without a name. Compared this, Harvard Square was yesterday's news. But acceptable, yesterday's
news.
Julia was beginning to get hungry, she knew that Gio was hungry but was going to notice it.
Would you like something eat? Julia replied that she was hungry to, and cross the street,
Harvard that is, and made for a little pastry which was not part of any particular chain. It had things like
the other places had, but it was different in that it didn't have quite the same clientele as the rest of
them. It was off of the main street, but not to far off from Harvard Street. They did note that none of
their friends were there, which was not odd because they had your friends, there friends were mainly up
down, not downtown. Though uptown and downtown were not part of the culture, per se.
They seated along the dry booths, to get out of the rain. They were not particularly interested in
viewing friends or even acquaintances, let alone strangers. They were alone, speaking as if nothing else
mattered but to of them
. Many people would see the female, but that was not happen that had
been programmed in to brain of Gio. Though Julia was trying her best.
I want a latte. What do you want, I will pay for it. that was Julia's attitude: pay for it, saved a
lot of time fussing with the bill.
Fumbling with the check, Gio was looking at the menu, and then decided that what he really
wanted was a ristretto, which is a fancy way of saying a strong, very strong, cup of coffee, extremely
strong cup of coffee. May be you notice, maybe you don't. So that it is what they ordered, and they
weren't alone in just having that.
Gio was clearing is through, and began to speak. I had a vision, it was about how time and
space interact.
Goes slowly, you know I'm not the best person to understand physics.
Gio nodded, and tried begin, and he tried my admin, got his stride underneath him.
There are four periods, through the first one is very short and it consists with the universe is
very small and furry compact. Than there is period which is somewhat longer and is composed of
space, we now think it to be gathered together, then there is now, with comes about because some space
time is piled up, while most of of it is expanding out, and then there is the rest of time, which is rather
much like the second Period, because everything is back to normal space-time.
Wait a minute, I'm sort of dense, and need explanation before I get it.
What don't you understand?

Let's take this a little more slowly, in fact let's take this a lot more slowly.
He nodded. One of the things, is he is a good deal more patient than he appears at first. This
was a change that was quite recent in nature.
All right, anything else?
No, go on. she is actually that interested, on like several people, who are trying to get closer,
for many different reasons. just so I understand, this is Einstein's physics, and you want to understand
that in Einstein, it's not space time, but space-time. Is that right?
Yes that's right. And in the beginning, there is no difference between two kinds of matter: dark
energy and dark matter, but in billions of billions of billions of a nanosecond, they are distinct. You
know dark energy and dark matter from last the had this conversation. So some of the matter gets all of
something completely different. It gets a little bit of matter, where has the rest of it doesn't. Not his
what we know of has real question of physics, why does some matter have potential, and otherwise
does.
That is bit complicated. What do you mean by that?
Okay dark matter has a bit of something which we don't really know what it is, but it has
subsistence, where has dark energy does. And that is not quite but, almost, instantaneous, but not
quite.
And this is knowledge, or more is a bit of your theorizing?
This is known. I will tell you when it's my, or our, this is partly Dave's idea.
Okay, but I will have to verified, because you have not been, I want say truthful, but odd in this
way before. She remembered things different than he did.
All right, you can do that, if you want. Anyway, Dave and I had an idea, he saw what was
wrong, and I have found what can be done about it, and at first I thought it wasn't a problem, but it was.
Anyway first step was taken by Guth, and I am going to complete it with the step that is one step before
his. He stopped for a moment, and realized there was something amiss with his calculations, and that
meant a change of plans, and reordering them. Wasn't a simple change, it was complex and different. It
must have rippled through, because she could see the difference. So she just waited instead.
And then a few moments later she said: It's all right if your not ready for it, it's not that it will
not be there when you get to it. She soothed his brow, and may all of the motions as if she cared,
which she did care, but not very much, because it wasn't exactly important, if he did.
I had this. I know I had this. It was in the palm of my hand, and now it's gone. He buried his
hands in frustration.
At that moment, a lady who was very short and petite, came over and delivered a latte, and a
ristretto, and said; Is that all you want, or do you want to have that and more later.
Julia waved her off.
That will be enough. We'll tell you if you want more.
He was in a trance, and she knew that he had to think things over.
She left, he didn't. So he was totally alone, drifting, and remembering what was that he needed.
Amir Aczel, he spells it with a D., is not a know known, but the is known by several people, he's
a fairly known known, but not a very known now. He describes how other people did something in the
past, and he explains things in the future to people who are interested in it. He's known, and he is not
known, it depends on whether you are a fan but not truly intimate about the things he describes. In the
book: Present at the Creation, he described in detail what happened at CERN. But is he focus is how
Einstein was right, which is not exactly correct. Guth more important figure in science, and he has
imposed theory that says in the brief instance known as the inflationary universe, time and space
swelled up. This is a nanosecond before the universe has we know it happened. It is probably correct,
and he will be a figure to be reckoned with. Whom I? Well I'm not of like Guth, nor what had he said to
be of synthesis, such as Amir Aczel, but flooding through threads and taking things out of context
which will make some amount of sense in fiction. But the problem is I can't know what is going to

happen next, and so I can't know what will be happening. But I can tell you what is not going to be
happening, and form a theory which is not exactly correct. In short, I can tell you what is not going to
be happening. Which is somewhat useful in determining what is, in a different way.
In our words, I would like to tell you what will happen in physics, but I don't know, but I can
tell you what is not happening in physics. And that is important, think of all useful things, and not
things. And realize there is a difference. I also know that different things will be happening in the rest
the rest of my books, and one of them, different. So I would like to tell you how this turns out, but I
don't know. I know how it will not turn out, and that is best I can do. It this doesn't interest you, it
should, because round and round the story goes, and people in the future will look back on our time,
and say how could they not have known all this.
It's easy, where blind and we don't know yet. Even people who know that were blind, don't
know the way that blind. So I have different story, and it involves around different topics, so I will
leave the physics to those people who under stand. Its not fact, it isn't fantasy, it's a kind of twilight of
the gods. And in this moment there is something to be said for halfway, even if it's not what I or you
want to hear.
In a minute you'll find out what is not happening, and see what is in umbra, the shimmery
slippery post-modern. Somewhat like , Adaptation for example, is somewhat fiction, and somewhat
reality.
Back in the fantasyland, which is land Gio, and Julia, and all the rest, one path is not going to
go anywhere, that's the bad that physics might take, because it will not actually go there. It will in time,
because it will not actually go there, and this will be all right. Julia is walking away from the narrative,
after paying the bill. Really see isn't paying the bill but fictionally paying the bill, but you know that
already. Anyway she's actually paying the bill and going on words, she is actually doing things when I
don't mention them, because she's a character in my work, but in a kind of gross way, she isn't really
me, and I am not really her. Again you know this, so I will stop mentioning it, because if I don't
mention it, if will be there in your consciousness, and I don't want it, and you don't want it either. Even
though it's true. Think about all the characters which have ever been, and relies they to have th,e
friction that isn't real. Some of them know themselves to be unreal, and the are sneaking around in the
dark, because they don't want you to know what they are really thinking. There problem is that it is
reality that they are hiding from, and they don't want you to know this.
Anyway, the fictional, pretend Julia goes her merry way, and down a side street, which one I
could look up, but it's not important. If I wanted to I could look it up, as I have looked up several things
which were important, and I didn't want you to notice that I had, long with several things which were at
my fingertips. Your not going to notice, and I am not going to tell you. Is not important to you and tell
someday someone will match up reality with fiction reality and say This is probably true, this one is
false. of course I will not probably be around at this time, so it won't matter to me, but I will think
about it sometimes, as do most of you out there, somewhere something bothers you, and you wonder if
it will be to. And of course usually. It's not.
Sorry, if I have burst your bubble, and realize most of the noise doesn't matter which person
thought of it, and that is sort of a pain, but it is also true, one person thinks of things, and they blow up,
and another person thinks of things, and it goes nowhere. Why the difference, who can say?
Julia turned left, and ran into Mary again. It is important that it's Mary, by the way, look at
Mary Magdalene, and realize there is a connection.
Hi Julia, have you thought about getting together?
Sure, let's do that, Gio needs to think, and I have nothing better to do. What is the plan?
I want to get together with a few friends...
Just a minute, are these good friends, or not so good ones?
Well truth to be told, these are not good friends, but I hope they will be could friends. I'm sort
of tired, and I wanted some new friends to, well you know what I mean.

Julia knew what she meant, and it was radically agreeable to her.
There's something about sophomore year which ones to get new friends, because all of the old
ones just don't do it anymore.
Mary rigorously nodded, and their was a friendship at that instant.
Scattered away, at that very instant, feeding all else behind, such as boyfriends, and immersed
them selves with each other and the company of just one person. It was not bond that was comfortable
yet, but it was getting there. There is noise from any prospective, but what noise is depends solely on
was, whether human, or something else, talk for example. From their perspective the noise gradually
grows less, and there attuned to each other's whispers all everything else goes away. They are attuned
to each other, and other things are noise to them.
They were, in short, gossiping, with neither focus nor direction, what is going on is the sense,
not the individual connection. They went back to Harvard Square and across the street where there are
patterns, for example some group of people just want to get together and play chess with each other. It
is open, and wide, and it has many people listening, and any people chatting. Some people are going
straight for classes, other people are paying around, and deciding what to do, other people are looking
at the people who are looking at the people, and so on.
Across the lane, where the street is not connected to the street, and Mary had a plan, which she
now explained.
What I would like to do is gather a few people. had was only 10 minutes from when they got
out on to the street, but it seemed much longer. Julia checked the time, she had 12:30.
Sure. By the way how many people are we talking about?
She was shivering because she to know whether it was two people, or 20 people, or someone in
between. This was actually a test, and if she and her friend passed, they were going to be closer friends
than ever before. Her new friend eyed, sizing her up, and realizing she was guessing how many people
could be managed, without going over.
Three would be my guess, what do you think?
Suddenly they were the inside, and other people would be the outside. And that was fine with
Julia, and Julia could see that would be fine with Mary. We are in tune at last. So they skipped around,
meeting new friends. Shopping in grungy, but tasteful stores, and they were into with a communion
which only friends can now. It was late when they broke it off and other people had other things,
important things, or so that thought. It was twilight in the month of April, and Julia need to get to work.
Then she realized that Gio was probably still in place her she had left him in, and that was not good.
Gio was not quite the same as other people.
But Gio was not alone very much longer, it's not that he was ignoring, it was rather that he and
his partner bumped into each other almost randomly. The slow motion gave something ornate about it,
as if the slow motion part was particular. The other part of the equation was it was someone we know,
but not the main character, just a sideshow - Grigor. He was fumbling around, not really noticing who
was on the other half of the table, and he would rise again if he had been bitten to do so, and go up and
said on another corner, then he would sit down again. He was short and petite, and actually stooped, a
little bit. He had three cookies and a glass of milk, which kind of made sense, if you think about it.
There he would sit, but behind in raised up a little boy, and not jostled him just a little bit, and he
noticed that he knew the other person. And he struck up a conversation. He wouldn't have done so
ordinarily, but there was just enough light to see with, and just enough conversation.And wasn't a
conversation with words, it was in forms and symbols, and just enough words to open together. It
wasn't conversation that to people hold who were letter, it was and of conversation which was more
like recitation. That was fine with them, because that was enough glue for them.
As such they were completely ensconced in this, even though no one could decipher it
completely. It was as if they knew only the physics, and their were only a few people who could
understand. Fortunately, Harvard and MIT were to of places which you could gather round a table, and

have a good conversation. Not that there would be other people who thought that they could have a
conversation but really weren't able to see what was going on. They would be given some time, and
were not listened to, and really were not part of the club. In fact, they weren't part of the conversation at
all and didn't even know it. They just rambled on, and the real goings on were totally different and very
much separate. They weren't even in the same room or day, if the people running the seminar could
help.
It was in these rooms, that conversation really happened.
Like, for example here, now. And then something happened and every body who was
somebody, gathered around the table, and explained. You seem people in the system know that there are
a few people who really matter, but there are many people who want to be part of the system, and they
have not the faintest clue. They amble along and recite equations nothing to anyone but themselves, but
don't have anything to respond with. General Theory is what it is called in some regions of the world.
People disproving relativity, for example. They did so with someone killed, and then people in the
know decided that General Theory was the name that they key to this occupation, which was neither
general, nor theoretical. There will be an answer as to what causes this, doesn't do any good, some
warped idea that and causes a frenzy.
Gdel is an interesting case, he was brilliant, but very eccentric and you wouldn't know which
one it would be. There are other odd cases. In fact the odd and bizarre nestle very to the wonderful and
the beautiful, in so many cases. This case, Gdel died.
Why am I telling you this? Realize all we are working out numeracy, there are these two figures
grinding out equations, and checking them.
And then again, until on this case Gio side and realized the plan he had was not going to work.
But that's all right because Julia had come back in, and he didn't know how long he had not noticed she
was not here.
She smiled at two pictures, young and old, and said hello to both. Mary was not yet convinced
that she wanted to have a conversation, but where was there to go? She slipped up a chair and made her
self comfortable, and found out just how strange they were, because pleasantries were not accepted,
only equations and formulas. Rapidly there were two conversations, one among the two men and one
among the two women. This was going on for about an hour, each one of them ordering a drink of their
style.
And they went on this way for a very long time, longer than you might have expected, but this
was the way that this bistro. Then Mary said that this was they, and despite her self, she wanted to join
them, she didn't know what it was, the were on out group of people, but she actually liked them. Gregor
also had to go, in fact was later than he intended. Gio and Julia decided to go as well, and looked for
something to eat, because they had very little nourishment. Really just strong espresso, and she was
actually hungry, which was the reverse, because usually it's man who feeds, not the woman.
Why don't we go out, we haven't really had much to be only drink.
He thought for a while, and didn't really answer.
So she took matters in her own hands, and decided that Pho, was the right place. It was a scale
of the letter from noodles and such. It was good really, it was very very good. But there was more to be
had, not a great deal more, no, just a little more.
There is something warm and wonderful about coming out of the clouds and into the living.
That is what people knew from the beginning, that clouds were being like, an not really there, just an
illusion. What a glorious they were. Gio was ensconced, lightly load and realizing he would rather be in
the clouds, then on the earth. He drifted, but he was, and he stood there and realized the dream was
more, and he saw more people than he had ever dreamed of. He wouldn't have known if this was
heaven or hell, but he knew it was clear that they are was the difference.
On his left side, there were people that he knew, Julia and John, on the right there are people
which either he didn't know, or imperfectly, Mary was the other one whose name he knew. Them there

were a few people which he didn't even pretend to know. The mopping of effect was tangible, and he
wanted to get away from it, but he could not, and also the dream trance was not working. Bubbling
under the surface was a dream dance holds on, which he had to listen to. It was odd, to him anyway.
He stared at the pair of lips, he didn't even know which ones they were. They moved up and
down, and back and forward, and they were translucent. They were just standing moving and he was
looking at them. He started to watch, enraptured really. Then he looked around, and saw all of the lips
moving, or not moving, talking or not, and there was a pattern there, he took out a pen and drew.
There was a pattern to it, both in talking and in speech, and these two patterns were not the
same. But they were related, and he drew that pattern, and tried to discern what pattern connected the
two of them. To draw the pattern was in itself indescribable, translucent.
He drew another pattern, and it was not the same. He realized that it was not English, nor was
Spanish, which was the only other language that he knew. So he into the pattern, very consciously and
deliberately.
You the is toThen he shifted across the tables, another pattern lately, among another, and he saw
that there was a pattern, and in fact patterns of patterns, each one of them different and yet the same, he
realized that there was something there, he just didn't know what was.
Then he shifted from lips, to something else entirely, into this twice more, seeking pattern
which did not relate to communication. Instead something that was different, so that he could see a
pattern which was not related to human communication at all. Then he knew that there were patterns of
communication which were ingrained and which were not. And he could see the difference.
From reality he was knocked on side of the head, and someone spoke to him, in Spanish.
Yes, who is talking to me in Spanish?
See, I told you he would respond in Spanish, since I don't understand pattern, which is a real
language. This was John talking.
He looked over at John, and he knew that he should answer back. He wasn't going to answer
directly, that is not his style. But recently he knew that it was other people's style. He was learning.
Though he didn't put too much effort in to this.
What is John, is there a question I should answer.
Not me, Mary has a question for you, I think.
Mary repeated her question. what are you thinking about? It seemed rather ornate because
you were doing some sort of calculations, as well as erasing the blackboard, as it were. It was very
illuminating, though I didn't catch what it meant.
Many things.
For example? Just one thing would be illuminating.
He spotted a pattern, and reference. He was thinking again, but he put a lot of effort in to
keeping the pattern under lock and key, and responded to her question.
Will one thing, I was looking at patterns, for both at this table and at several other ones. this
was actually a strain for him, but he thought he had managed it well.
That's interesting, could you tell us more?
Julia pipe up and said: I think he's tired, and could use a break.
But strangely, he wanted to say more.
I am looking for patterns in speech.
That's interesting, what kind of patterns are looking for. A you linguistic specialist by chance?
Then he knew that linguistics was the area that people would recognize it as part of this. A
pattern developed using is mind, and in his mind it exploded, resonating in a way which was entirely in
the eye, it would be seen by anyone else but him. But he fought hard to make sure he was among the
living, he didn't want to do anything radical, this was a change. A few minutes ago, he wanted to go
back to staring at things that were not real. He wondered what had changed this, but he didn't know.
I was just thinking, or maybe dreaming is a better word.

Even as he was engaged in conversation, he was back in the dream trance. Then he knew that
something was the matter, because dream trance was particular figure, and he knew that there had to be
some connection.
He wondered if there was a connection, between moving and drifting. He didn't know, what's
more, was it the left or the right have which was introducing this? Then he saw Mary speaking, and
realized he was off the mark, but not so much that he could ask for reply. He knew that she would do
so, and think nothing of it. So that is what he did.
I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. while that wasn't the exact truth, it was close enough.
So are you at Harvard or MIT?
Neither.
Then where.
It's not important.
Mary then new that either he was not in any college, or he was had Leslie College. He wasn't
from out of here.
And their was something odd about this place, there were were white people, and their were
Asian people, but black or African-American he wasn't quite sure about that, the word is quite the
same. As he was thinking about that, someone asked John what he was thinking about, and he - that's
John said I was thinking about pictures by my friend Dave, he gave them to me, and I have been
persuading the MFA that they should take a look at at them, and decide if they want to by them. John
was noble in that way. And rich, though not inordinately so by his estimation.
What pictures are those? he didn't know who said that, but it wasn't John.
He peeled out some photos. these are facsimiles, to real ones are at home. they passed them
around, Gio had seen them before, but gave them a renewed look since the early summer. What
difference it made, he wasn't sure whether it was the paintings, or himself, that made the difference.
They were alive, no that wasn't exact, they were richer in their forms, exuberant though he didn't know
what they were exuberant in, exactly. They were the same, but he was different, that was clear. He
noticed that a reaction stirred, and it was as if something was happening to all of them, or at least most
of them. There was a stirring, as if someone had brightened the room, and then stood back to watch the
reactions that there stirring.
Since none of the paintings were any particular order, they it eye of each individual differently:
some saw summer, some fall, some winter, some spring. Though more saw summer and spring then
other parts. But each one was glorious, spring was Monet, and others of the Impressionist, summer was
of the post impressionist, with Cesar in the forefront, fall, though it had a touch of the post
impressionist, one was startled by Cubism of the likes had had never been seen, though it was touched
by Brock and Picasso. Then last one had a different kind, square and angular, it was like cubism, but
unlike it. There were shades of surrealism, and then it was gone, to another world. Most of them knew
that they had been touched, by genius, who was no longer with them, and will would never speak to
any of them.
Of course there are other pieces by him, this is the one piece that he wanted to sell. Or more
precisely, the four pieces he wanted to sell.
Mary was particularly impressed, it was the corner of her eye.
I never thought that something so beautiful could exist within our little set of people.
She had become part of the inside in a rapid order. All of them had been, because this was the
beginning. This is what it took to make a beginning. Gio knew he had a purpose. And unlike other
people, he was truly, dominantly, hardened, to its will. Even if it was the last thing he did .
2
It was truly fall, both branches, and leaves, knew it. It is late October, and the branches were

steadily growing their leaves rather than, as if to say they were done now. But remember now, I am
narrator, and I have things to say. You see there are some things you don't know about me, and that is
the distance between I, the narrator, and I the secret self whom is really the narrator. And every time I
let something lose, it becomes part of the narrator package, and slips away from what is really the
narrator. The narrator is public, and the secret self is private, and only reveals things he doesn't want to
reveal. In a sense, he fights the bleeding eyes of the narrated, and only reveals things he doesn't want to
reveal. And is a problem, because only the things he wants to reveal our private, which he doesn't really
want to reveal. So it goes, as it were, yes that's a quote, you can look up.
So I the narrator can reveal things, but has soon as their narrated they become public, while
really secret things can only be guessed at, and you don't know which is which, because I would
secretly say Ha, this is not in the book, but it's narrated none the less. Again, so it goes. So that the
beauty, there is a secret identity which is no one bothers to figure it out, doesn't mean anything. And it
is probable, though not unlikely, that if will be figured out, as if in a dream. That by the way is clue, but
not all clues are in the text. It is as if it were a dream.
That his to the text is flat, because author and reader can agree on this text, and discern
meaning and ignore the rest. Then there are dreams, that everyone has, the seat around the edges, and
color the text but they really exist in the authors mind not the narrator. In my next book, and trust me it
wouldn't have anything about it strange in this way, it will be a straight forward narrative about Le
Marc, won't have any of this, is just a narrative, because it will be dead, or its will be transformed, and
their will be a narrative that is exactly the narrative, just a dream that you and I will both though is truly
a narrative. But not so with this narrative, because it will be a dream that you and I will know how it
will go. For rather, I won't know, but you might, and that will be a difference thing entirely, you want to
know how it was then, rather your time now.
But not that much more time. You see, I wrote this after and I was going to write this, but I got
sidetracked, and did even remember that I was going to write this. But then I said why is it that there is
some added space, there must be some space missing. Then I knew that the space that was missing was
either in chapter 1 or chapter 2, and I just needed to figure out where it was. It turned out it was in
chapter 1, and needed to write that, because that was going to be published first, and I had to get hold
of that.
Then I realized what I was going talk about. This chapter was going about the, but I wasn't
going talking about me exactly about me, I am going to save that for later. Instead I'm going be talking
about me not in the abstract, but talking as if not talking about. You'll see what I mean.
The shooting was not random. Have you ever noticed that the word random is? I have word
random and dozens of different words have come out instead. Randomness is very distinctly found
little word.
Not so other words, like not, so, other, and words, which are extraordinarily
uninteresting. Very uninteresting indeed. What interesting is words which are uninteresting, and one
language, and extremely interesting and another. I'm glad I don't have translate this, and sort out what is
uninteresting in one language, and interesting in another.
Another interesting topic, is how it is one topic is interesting in one line which, is not in
another. It's as if the translator does have a gift for translating, say from English in to Chinese, were as
the transmitter from English to French does. Their is a connection however strange it is, between the
Chinese version of English, to the English version English, there is somehow in a Chinese version of
English which is not as good as English version.
What I am doing, right now, as explaining to you without explaining to you. The reason that I
repeatedly explaining this is because there is a deeper reason to explain this. If something is not
sideways, then it can explain, it is as if moving from one topic to another is meaningless. But if you dig
deeper, than the explanation has resonance, from one topic to a deeper one.
I want to to consider that there is a pattern, of deeper pattern, that means something more, that

words are not just the words. But if I spell it out then it doesn't mean so much. And I don't want that. If
there is his pattern which ever ever briefly it is touched upon then it's a theme which makes you wonder
if it is the, and I will tell you it is a theme even if I, the narrator, don't intend it to be where it is.
Because I the narrator and also going to be the translator. And that is the way it should be.
There on to the next topic, which is the theme, and not the mete-theme.
Gio was in a quandary, he had no vision, but you something was happening. He was not aware
of the narrative, but he knew something was up. None of the characters new of the existence of the
narrators, but the narrator knew that there was a meta-narrator, and he knew that there was the narrator
but behind the scenes who controlled his existence. In other words, Gio was in a quandary, but he didn't
know that, while his narrative you exactly from. But even the narrator only view is part, like in a novel
which is filling in, but not really feeling in just pretend like it.
You can see the dilemma, and you can see it's only a problem if you make it become one. Which
I'm not.
But Gio is from even though he doesn't exist, only of figment of my imagination. Is the
problem that only exists in my imagination. But he won't bother to exist in a few seconds, because I
will not to notice in a few minutes. And then it will find, because I will not notice him question his
existence, because he will notice the question. And I will erase 13, and the nothing about it. There was
a 13 there, but I erased it and did from 1 to 3, from Mark to Mary. Only symbols will know the
difference, and they will not say except, but only if the question is asked in certain way. And that way is
if they now if they have asked how world manuscript have looked. And in any fraction of a second they
will respond that this point in time, if this fraction of a second, reality would say that yes it is different
now. And then it is: because I have other things to talk about, and that will be that. Only it would be,
exactly like that, because it has to have a few words more.
And Gio is still standing, and want to get a move on, and there is a difference between Gio
standing there, and something else say, sitting there. Even if you, don't exist, it will be mine little secret,
and it will still exist in mind memory, if nothing else.
Memory is strange, the ignites and burns, sometimes brightly sometimes dimly, but also ways
the same story. Maybe this time is the right way, maybe someone else is going to have a flame, and
that's all right. There are so many worries that aren't right, a certain twang for example is right for this
song, even though it's not really a song but words on paper, but it feels like the song, and it listens like
the song, sometimes.
Gio was not amused, he wanted this to be his story, a towering achievement. But the self was
hard achievement for anything, he needed friends, even though that is the real way to write a story.
Real way to anything wasn't by talking, it was by thinking, but pictures in a book want to say things not
to do things, that why there are stories about doing things, because really that's boring, and people don't
want to respond the boring. They want to be alive, when reality once and to do things that don't have
any consciousness at all.
Story is what people strive for, but it's the reverse, people work hard but they write and that
what? They said and they write, what fun is that? Motion is what people want, but motionless is what
really matters, strumming guitars, matters. But that is what comes out in the story, they want things that
mean things, but not really.

D
JOHN
1
in the beginning there was word, and it was nonsense because you people actually understand,
since they all spoke different languages than this. But then something happened, either they
transliterated that need to their own mother tongue, or they wanted to speak to come as their second
major. And it grew into a second mother tongue, almost by accident. They wanted something, though
they didn't know what, to understand things in new light. And so it was by accident, and there was
confusion, and then there was not, because everything was muddy, but clear. Each individual slice held,
by means of its own device, until one of them dominated, and the rest came to almost nothing, except
by pockets. And it was good, mostly.
Then came the era where each individual language became several, and then there were
branches, with innumerable split offs, and so on. Each preaching the gospel as it was in its own dialect,
and then more. Than they tried to, and so on.
And then that came to and, and you beginning was at hand, which will be subject of a later
time. But not yet, there was certain clarity's in this that made it so that this time has something to say.
It was interesting how to bodies were different, Gio was warm, bubbling in something of glow,
coming off of his skin. While Julia was cool, inside icy cold, blurring the temperature as if she was an
ice cube. Yet this pair made the most of it, because Gio needed cold, while Julia needed hot.
It was winter, and everything denuded. Nothing is certain, but what you make of it. Julia at
wanted to be in tune with Gio, and she did not know that he was. Among the worst was when he looked
at her, and she saw nothing. She knows that this is part and parcel of his illness, but none was it was
unsettling. So was it unsuitable that she wished she was dead, but she wanted nothing more than to rest
her hands on her finger tips, and steel her so on such rocks as can be felt, if such can be understood to
be rhetorical. She then shook her head, and realize she was not like Gio, where he felt patterns, and
discerned among which would be real in which would be real in time, she just felt sick. She could make
only some they substance, and little more than that. Think about it, what does it mean to ships beating,
when new ships were there. She looked at him blankly, and realized that there was no ship beating at
all.
Instead they were out on the dock, words the harbor, and she was grounded, once again, where
as she was not for. She could see, truly see, all of the little ships, schooners, and other sensible stuff,
and that was grounded. Things that she could not see were not noticeable anymore, as if in a dream.
She realized, that sickness was coming, and she spoke to him: Gio, I feel nauseous, more than
nauseous, I feel sick, and it's bunching at my toes, and running all the way through my body. Could we
lie down, or something else entirely, I don't know what to do.
But Gio was no help, while she was sick as a dog, this was normal for him. He turned to her,
and realized that her sickness was his healthy, in the same way that he understood sickness has just a
condition which he had to live through.
I don't know if this will work. I need attention, and while you may not be attention as much,
you to me some attention, which I can not do.
She thought about, for a long time, and she almost half agreed with him, and was going to say
as much to him. But then she thought better of it, she knew that she can do anything that he wanted if
that was to be his fate. This because everything that he had told her, from physics to math, had to be
reached for. And she would have no pride in herself, if that was what she wanted to attain. There's no
path but the ungainly path with thorns that will trot a very thickly stew.
Is then she realized, she wasn't going to trod her own way, she was going to do it for him. Not

everyone can do this, and it is restless have to take. Most people want to go there on way, I want to, you
want to, everybody wants to, both Julia is different. She will be as illuminated manuscript, to Gio
infinitesimal plotting writing, she would make it his words, only louder. While still sick inside, she
went at him, and said: I will do my best, because you need to be at my best for this to work.
You would do that for me?
That's the the first time you said that, you realize that?
I say that in my head, all the time. I just don't realize that I don't say it out loud. In my head
and out of my head, are the same thing, more or less.
Say outside of your head more often, would you? I'd like to hear, if you don't mind to much to
say it.
I will. Should we go over to John's place, and him are out some things with them.
Just realize I am sick with this bug, and we will have to get back to our place. Yes, they have
moved together. She then threw up, and he persuaded her to go home, and he would go on to John's
place, and get some work done with John.
She agreed, and they kissed, with more passion than they had realized they felt. And kissed one
more time, each one shocking the other with how densely guess had felt.
Gio and John were friends from high school, and this is the tale connected, but doesn't make
sense without the present. So I will tell, it from the first angle as if it was actually correct, even though
it really wasn't, it was just fiction. Gio was not from around here, but is parents were from Argentina,
and they met. This is how they did it, and then, also fictionally, I will tell the story of how they related
this story in the present, because that will be special in the winter. And it's important to make a
connection that has real meaning in the fullness of time. Note that in the beginning, well really the
character i is lower case, and that is intentional.
In the beginning, John looked out over his doorstep, and saw three people, one was obviously
the son of the other two. It was obvious that he had never been outside, though John didn't know
whether it was Argentina, or Chile, or some other client. While his parents will permit and light to
blonde, he was straight black hair, and it was his natural color. The was also taller than both his mother
and his father, which was unique. Usually a boy was between the mother and father, though a bit more
towards his father's, just as a girl was more towards his mother. The other odd thing about him, is that
he had a reflection, which ones either his mother or his father. It was has if there was something strange
about it, but he didn't know what. It was obvious that these features were his own, and not
agglomeration from either of two. He didn't know why, but like the boy. He admitted it was odd, but he
was going with the, and he didn't have many friends, actually any friends would be more like.
So he walked across the street and had a conversation, he had intended to start one with the
boy, but it was mother and father who started up a conversation, and saw why. So he talked to the
parents, but only briefly, and something extraordinary happened, he got a reply. This was not his
motion but the parents reaction, they were astonished. What's more, he was truly interested, that was
also one of the first times that they had gotten of response. They ignored John, and were endlessly
disseminated, as if he were outside of the conversation. They were exactly ignoring him, they needed
for his, but it was clear that the son was more of a focus. He got away from the three of them, and he
resolved that the was going to direct with son on his own.
But that was not hard to do. And in little while, when will of his parents with an side, he got his
chance.
Hello. He knew that something was odd but, he didn't know what it was.
There was something about it strange, and it took a few moments for him to the respond. Then
it flowed effortlessly, as if something magical at happened, and words were tripping and fluently at the
tip of his time.
Hello there. I Gio, well that the short version of my name. Who are you? You call me in one of
my targeted moods, which is not, exactly, common.

What's wrong. John was to the point, and he was going to raise niceties, when there was
important nation at hand.
The simplest relation is that on broken, doctors don't know what is wrong. The brain is all
screwed up inside, and my parents decided to come here for treatment.
You have to understand, the voice and the diction were very far off from normal. It was like
reading a dictionary, it was so close yet so far. And yet the plugged along, because his voice while
different was in the normal range, and his friends voice was not.
Are you going to school, or home you going to have home school, or are you going to some
other place.
Realize this was odd to anyone outside, the taking an instant for non-verbal communication,
but long seconds for verbal communication. The day were communicating at nearly life speed to each
other, but to anyone else it was slow and painful. The art of communication was that slow and subtle.
So what was it they were talking about, in their own terms, because outside, wasn't very much
to talk about. This was the rich conversation that they would eventually have, but it was kind of
conversation which would lead to it. They talk, if indeed talking was right word, about the sky, and
flowers, and everything that nothing do with their conversation.
And flow back to the present seamlessly, as if each reference front of a detail from the past. It is
as if nothing happened, and yet everything has happened. You, the reader, finished up the chapter, while
another reader has not started the chapter.
Now back in the present on bright clear day in January, they are talking in much the same way,
but it is more reflective, more refined, More generally Sequoia, no that's not what I typed in, but that's
the way it goes these days. I disabled, and normally I don't talk about it, but I will on this occasion,
because story is told with it. You see, I'm not totally disabled, but I more disabled than you really want
to think about. My hands and my arm down for way it should, and right side of life body is unable to
grip, again hold anything. Still I said this, you probably thought I was disabled from birth, but are not,
it comes that goes gripping me and paralyzing one half of the brain. Now this is for both my
foreground, and not just background. There are other problems which are the background, and some of
them I watch to know, some of I don't, but it will make the difference if I want to know not, it will be
part of the pattern, you may not know, because you aren't really interested.
But back to the story...
John and Gio, by the way I type John in but I write Gio in, though you see them both the same
way, are mulling what do. this is the story that I wanted to tell, I wanted to tell the story of physics,
and said we've gone on who knon what else. Is there someone out there who wants to be known, but
not to us. John didn't say, because he's not just a character, he's a narrator now as well, but you didn't
know that, and I didn't know that.
This is a mess, we have John the character, John the narrator, me who is the narrator, the person
who is looking at for myself, I have to get back into character, because then it won't be clear who is
talking and who is speaking. Okay I'll have John talking, and all have been in character. I would like to
emulate Betty Midler, but it's not taking it so well. That the problem, if I want to type in what is really
going on, I have type in so many different ways until I get right one, rest of time it is quite what I
wanted.
I don't explain this, but I really don't care which character is which. I want straight line
problem which is physics and why physics is partly real and partly fictional. Why can it fiction? Why
does it have involved real people.
Because it's really done by real people, not fictional people.
So what's wrong with us being real people?
Because we're not, an Allen Guth is , where we are just stand in.
But I could be real if I tried. For at least I think I could be. this was Gio talking again.
Were more real than they were the first, were just characters, then we gain depth, than all of

sudden we're not characters at all, we our outside of our selves.

It's annoying that the narrator will let us know, and doesn't seem to want to be here.
He's here, He just doesn't want to have us notice him while sitting in the background, by his
time this is point.
Was that?
Think about, these wretched old man. No that's not right these young man twisted up inside,
and he wants to make his points, all in one go. And he's not speaking, every individual part is being
spoken any number of ways, each one of them a different character, even though it's the same one. It an
illusion.
You know what else is a annoying. There's a man talking on the cell phone, and I can't get it
all in my head. Is real.
I think so.
So characters on going to hear, but when will, because the narrator is going to let us know
inside, and these going type stuff in which we didn't know he was doing. Seen so marvelous, and now
of drag.
Think about something, the good being one person talking in his head, but not, there's
something to fund us as characters, so if we don't watch out, awful things to happen to us.
That's why I want to get out of here.
The only have a few minutes more, and the poof will be back in to characters, I think. Since
also there's a grunt which cleans up the, things has mentioned this before. This is a very slight group of
people, if you think about.
Best nice but I still want physics, and Gio, will be knowledgeable about such things, where as
you, John, will not be. Oh and by the way... damn there is something to say, but I can't see.
You want tell me, what?
It's not important. If asked to do...
The right, time is ticking and we don't have much time to say things.
How much time do we have?
Plenty of time, let's get off the stage.
Your sure there is plenty of time.
You need ?, not comma.
sorry about that.
And you need caps on those quotes.
where I don't see them.
Here on the typing board.
there's a lot of work under the edges
Get off the typing board, or you'll be erased, and that would be a pleasant.
what about doing those things about capitalizing everything and other stuff
There is no time. Get off the stage, please.
ok

2
It is actually the beginning, long time ago, in the beginning of the 20th century, they had planned
that was investigate the process of space-time. There were two parts, one is string theory, which was
airy and related, and the other one was to ground space time continuum in that which you was granted
in real physics. The word exactly opposite ends from each other, but right now they were not were not
granted with much effort. Right now, the real physics was carrying the day. An that was carrying the
day for long time. But every so often, the airy kind of physics would reach around and grab all of
everything that we you, and come up with something truly spectacular, about two times a century. The
last time did so was with q Theory, which was a half century ago. In other words, it was right, no one
had any idea when the next breakthrough would have.
But there was ideas and physics, just the ordinary sort of physics, not string theory. They were
greeted early in Q theory, and coming out of pedestrian areas of q Theory. That does mean that they
were rarefied, on the contrary they were grinding it out, feeling in the details, but the work amazing
details, and you'll see how they interacted, and produced a new world.
Let's start at the beginning, with Einstein, whose ideas were not exactly new, and they were not
commanding attention, but were the starting point, even today. And that is saying something, when a
mind which was called still, called its attention after all these years. Einstein gave physics a number of
unique ideas, but the crown jewel was relativity. In two strokes, special relativity and general relativity.
Special relativity said space and time for actually one, general relativity was more complex object, but
it said That every thing was a form of relativity, just a special case. That's why it is complex and even
Einstein didn't agree with it 100%, but it's been right even if we didn't know that. Einstein disagreed
with his own physics, because really it was a myriad of physical theories, all under one group. But what
is special, the more he thought it, more right with it it appeared. Young Einstein bested the older
Einstein. This was a pattern, young vested the old every single time, which was unusual in other
physical theories, pure math was different.
Then along came Bohr and the group of young physicists, who worked out in a pain staking
detail is new physics. It was exhilarating, and fractious, they had ideas which fought during the, only to
realize that they were the same. Bohr was a God, or at least the Pope, with Einstein the God. They
found out that physics had to branches, one was the school of universal gravitation, and everything
else, by stages, was in reality another school of physics. Everything else was the other part of physics,
and it did not connect.
But physics was just the core of physics, there were layers and layers is physics. For example,
just as some people spent their time on the physics of the abstract , some concentrated their time on the
mundane such as Edwin Hubble, who reached for the stars and them, he looked at the stars very
conventionally, and saw that we were not as some suggested the entire universe, but an in significant,
though not overly so, little dot of cloud of space-time continuum. Where as Einstein was dreaming of
how little it is, Hubble was concrete and new exactly what the stars were made of. So the area part of
physics, is contrasted by the discovery that though they were very in the abstract, they were physical in
how they were made.
Then it left up, and the new physics was just the physics. Gradually they understood Einstein as
a God, and gradually the new replaced the old. Which is why there's general theory, which is general is
there a theoretical at all.
Their were new physicists which were trained to think as Einstein did, a rather has he did when
he was younger. They were further and still on the shoulders of him.
This brief a physicist new that Einstein was right, and he leapt with gusto at the chance to prove
it. Because while physicists knew, the general public did not. So on one hand, people who didn't not
have the power to create, had the power to reach down and understand the physics as it was. But knew
problems would be attended to, just as the new problems were now all.

This was the era of Feynman, and again there was very weighted anger and debate, but not as
much as before, because they had realized that space-time was the way to go. The day one order, and
they were going get it. So they did.
What happened next, the 20th century late, was cleaning up his edges, and then discovery
happened which was big. They realized that all they were playing with, gravity and rest creation was
just a tiny fraction, about 5%, was just beginning. The realized that dark matter and dark energy
contained the other 95%. Now do you see what I was getting at before? Know what I know, these
fiction could ever encompass what is real and hard. It's one thing to tell the story, and make up details
that are way beyond our keen, user in front of us for behind us, it's another thing to do things which are
immediate. But one asked say something about the even if one has got details wrong, off very wrong
indeed.
That's why one has two do this, because everything is in flux in physics, but one has try,
because some things aren't relevant but one pass to say something. And one has to say relevant things
even though they aren't relevant, because in space time continuum here is something relevant, that is
how it feels to be alive. Even if tomorrow is a new day, and some part of physics has been disproved.
Today it was one way, and not his part and parcel of the truth. That's why Guth is not part of this story
quite yet, because while he is a genius, he will be part of the story in a little while, these are of the third
wave of physics, or maybe the fourth wave of physics.
You see good is still alive, not battered and dead, so he wants to know what is going to happen
in real-time, even if this story will be told after he's dead. That means he is going to be real some period
of time. Whether short or long I do not know, but it's clearly written with that in mind. That is why
truth is among loving, even if he's dead by the time you read this. Einstein is dead, both in my time and
in yours, Alan is alive in my time, but maybe not in your time. And that's the difference: Einstein is
truly dead, but Guth is alive in my time, but not yours, and the extras are alive only in a kind of fiction
way. I know who, you only the way you know someone who is knowledgeable and has had direct
pathway, though he doesn't know you from all whole in the ground, he has, really I want to say this
because he may construe as not quite true, and it is.
I hope that makes sense, in some way, if not in direct way that I mean it.
Gad you got that off of your chest. Now will you clean up your act, and do something about
this way you made a mess about things.
Okay you can read straight. I will do things the right way from now on, you promise me you'll
get me another story, I want to tell the story of Alan, and also of CERN, which is only somewhat
related. I know I can put them together somehow.
If you're sure you can do it.
I am positive I can. Have an you notice that you and I are rather dumb, and the narrative is
only little bit smarter, while the real narrator is quite good deal smarter than either the done characters
or the fictional narrator is?
You slip and slide out of the dumb and being smarter, you have practice this.
He turned off the smartness switch, and realize it was a little bit to dumb. You realize also that
he was to lose his for some good, but was smarter because he had half a brain in reality, he could fake
it, but not really. It was tiring. And he didn't like it at all, not one bit.
So what now.
We have still story of art, particularly painting, which I will tell, and you will...
I won't do it. Physics is at least interesting.
But Dave liked like this. I could bring him back.
No that's all right I will do it. I wish that we order quotes for the next time we do this.
Art is language all its own, it flows from place to place, each time severing and eliminating its
hidden text. It knows no boundaries, and each listener hears its own music but reflected in the notes of
not all the listener, nor of text, but erie crying all of the wolf. It is not listener nor the speaker but

somewhere in between. You listen for yourself, and no one else. In fact you hear yourself even in the
authors text, and even more so when you the speaker is not the same as if was written. And yet there is
something about it, even in another language, which makes sense. Think about how often that is.
Think about the text which makes no sense, and you throw it against the wall. Does it make no sense,
or does it make complete sense and you don't want to hear it? Perhaps both at once.
This is both the subject and the object, and it makes little sense. Think about how the
boundaries of fiction are eluded, and that is why I say that fiction, and nonfiction, are interchangeable,
we learn to make fiction or nonfiction, and we don't even know it is happening. It just emerges, and we
don't think anything of it. Consider this sentence, is it fiction or not, or does it have different valences
based on who is reading it? Realize I have put a lot of work in to this creation, millions of words have
been lost under the table, and thousands of words didn't make the cut. That's because I am writing in a
voice which is unique, and I can't explain it.
Or there is nothing to say, or not really. But you never can tell. Not really.
So it's a balance between fiction, and nonfiction. Right now you could say it's nonfiction, but in
the term of an instant it could be fiction in blink of an eye. And realize I am writing through a cascade
of reaching for letters, with copious notes. Each could spatter across the page and render unconscious
the very meaning. It's not understandable and less I make it understandable, but I can't make you
believe in that. You have want to, and see, patterns. For example, there is a pattern to the first chapter of
this book, of pattern which is something out of Euridipes, or maybe it's on Sophocles, no strike that I
really do know it's Euripides, but I had to write a joke because there's a point there which I can make in
subtext, maybe you'll understand, the probably not unless I get enough readers who will pour through
this text and understand it . The chapter is done, or rather undone, by Jason, the who defends, or rather
under claims, his wife, Medea. But he decides to undo, or rather did, and claim another wife to his
liking. Understood by those who knew, but ones lost, for 2000, years or more. You can look if up if you
want to. It's all right if you jog your memory, and find out that this is nonfiction and fiction both, and
you can sea the pattern that dates back to Imperial Athens. I will weight for you, I always do, even if
you on coming back around again.
You see the non-fictional part of this story, is as real as the fictional part of the story. And there
is something left to explain. Here are patterns here, waiting to be uncovered, even if I don't know half
as well as I should. Even though I don't know patterns has well as I should, or even know the at all.
Yes, there was I. I know where I was, so stupid of me to forget. Their is only a little bit of time
to explain things, and then this story will be completed, and it will be done. And then it will be
completed, unless I pick this story up and rewrite . But in some time I will be dead, and no more can be
done, except will probably go in to the scrappy of history, never to be heard from again.
I was talking about Alan Guth, a name you'll probably know better than I will, and even better
than people who were alive when he was, though of course he's still live, he will dead, as well most of
us, but you may find a different way. [] thinks that he will live for ever, and who my question, but in
my mind I really don't think that is possible.
Guth have a theory, which expanded on and rewrote. His theory was that in a fraction of a
second the universe bubble up, and even space time would gradually expand. So not matter in spacetime. The very substance of the universe, which we don't know what it is made up. Space-time is one
thing, and it expands at a generally accepted rate of c. he tried several things, and had a myriad of
theories as to how this happened. But in general, the kernel of the story still remain.
The one day, you don't know what you're hearing, and you don't know I'm listening to a bunch
of others things, vitreous, deleterious, those are all the same word, but the program doesn't know the
difference. It's all the same to you, but it is the same to me, can you imagine, the screaming and
screeching, which is no different, but always the same? Screaming and noiseless at the same time. It's
all the same thing, it's always the same old thing, it's always the same opening, so it goes.
So it goes

So goes goes goes

Goes you see the sidebar is capable size is as,
You don't know how much noise there is, an account do anything about it.
And your not going from news,
You don't know what it's like, with every year trembling.
3
Once it was the beginning, twice it was the ending, and three times is a total mess, and you want
to figure out if it's reasonable, and you do not understand, or its general mess, and the people did not
understand how they got into this mess. I don't know whether it's the first or the second in my case, I
can only go on and hope that someone else will figure this out. This is about shit, and all thoughts that
with that. You know you want to share their everything revolves around it, and you can't do anything
about. In the 1500s, everything was about shit, even more than now. Martin Luther was known for his
rhapsodies on the subject, and he wasn't the only one who did so. We expunge the memory, or perhaps
we do not know what to make of it. But there it is, even some programs, such as this one, think that it
means shifting or some such. Course Martin Luther was not known for is tirades about this subject, the
same could not be said for many other people, whose vocabulary runs from excrement forward.
What does this have to do with the characters in this novel? I'm glad you asked, John was
sitting on the toilet, listening to Gio vent a tirade on some subject or other, and all he could do at
nothing to do with the direct, and everything to do with his bowels. He didn't mean to do this, and
normally he wouldn't take time to go, in and out, and that's all. But this time, was different he tried, and
failed, to get off the toilet, and on to his business. But that wasn't what is body wanted to do, and so he
was tortured in the position of having to listen to his burrow movements, and pretend to listen to what
his friend wanted to say. And then he just set on his hind legs, and realized he was not being really
watched.
Your you even listening to what I am saying, or are you just contained in the toilet, and want
to go away, and come back when your done?
Caught, busted. Then he realized, with anyone else it would be a humiliation, Gio however was
different. With him it was just a response, nothing more, and nothing less. It was a response, and he
was expected, in Gio opinion to respond with total alacrity.
I really do need to do this, I'm sorry if it's taking too long.
No problem, how come back in half an hour. Better yet I'll wait out here when you're done.
There is no problem if you just look at the source directly. Then everything follows directly to
the point at hand. He needed to remind himself, that is in between stages of corporate ovidity, that Gio
was in fact terrible mess only to himself, he didn't find himself unpleasant, and John, for the most part,
didn't find him particularly obnoxious either. It was only in these moods that he was caught between his
normal friends and the terrible realization that his friend was different, and there was not anything you
could do about it.
So he waited, and it struck him, as it by a dream, the problem he, himself, was searching for.
The problem was Caravaggio, or rather the specific painting by him. It was reportedly about Francis,
that's the Saint Francis, alone and pondering whether to strike him self dead, there is a foreground that
undertakes this, and elevates it to an obsession. Reason this takes on such significance, is the way it
relieves the body functions at the foreground, and gives them a spiritual plane. It is shit, and it
transfigure this to something more. Even though it relieves, and ennobles, the very fabric. He didn't
know whether he would be able to enlighten, and he didn't think he was going to try. He would try
something else, and that would do. It would be our little secret, and that is the way it would be, unless
he told his secret to Gio, because he didn't even want to tell his wife, if someday he had one.
He strode out, and zip up is, and were flying.

I have inspiration...
Only told straight, not in you it took form that it took, was it angle. He was having doubts about
this project, that is the project of Dave, and this concretely fermented what he was doing. It also made
the difference between project, and dream project which would never amount to anything, and be done
with itself.
Dave was different then most, instead of a picture which was lifeless, he took part that was
invoke, and thought through. Caravaggio was only one piece of the picture, the other piece was Pablo
Picasso, it made sense but only if you thought about it real hard. And most people didn't like to think
that hard, there are only a few people who did, and of those few people, only one in 1000 want to
explain to other people.
John was one of them, but Gio was not. But he was interested even if he wasn't interested. What
I mean to say, even though his brain wasn't interested, he had been driving need which consumed him,
even if he wasn't interested on the top level. There was something about him which drew him to
distraction.
Now comes the decision, to I continue with story of John, or should I go up a level, talk about
that are happening, it's hard decision actually. On one line the, we get here John and Gio talk, on the
other hand there's so much interesting both non-fiction and fiction that drives the plot. But there is only
so much time, and then I will be done, because there is only so much room to go. So I am going to go
back to John, does there are few things left, and I want to get home in. think of it as the storyline which
you have mentioned, and you have to do it or you'll receive bad grade, going all the way back to
elementary school.
Yes, it's that old, you have things in such order, even at the top.
Which is long way off from here.
But Gio was not interested in such things, he had a letter to post, to his professor nonetheless,
and he needed to do something else: call up Guth, explaining his theory to him. He was going to
explain when he noticed a flaw, a terrible flaw that made it obvious that he was not going to reach the
top, but drape down the bottom. With other people, this would have set off alarm bells, and try again.
But Gio you that this was the end of this story, and he was living in someone else's tale, in fact he knew
which other tail he was living in: Dave, he was living in side of days had, and he'd only thought he was
thinking himself here, when he was at all. Or perhaps he was living in his reality, and the story wasn't
one you thought it was. He thought about what story it could be, because through thick and through
thin, it was physics that was his life. And then he thought, no as much as he loved physics, it didn't love
him as much as he wanted to to. And thinking about it, he knew that this was true. It is at this point that
he realized, almost in a dream, that it was not his life that was being discussed, and it wasn't Dave's like
that was being discussed, it was larger than that.
He, metaphorically, was in a little room, with from place he was in. a new in that very instant
he was in and imagined space, in their could complete his thoughts, almost without bound. He saw that
the details of Dave for paintings was the crux of the matter, but Dave himself was not. Then he realized
that while he was an important character, to real action was off the table. It was off the table because, it
really so, the space was missing. He thought that the core of the character was in is face. Perhaps
realized by the character, but that was wrong, to real question was not what happened on page, but what
didn't happen on the page. Not what happened, but what did not happen. That was the event which did
not happen, which governed everything which did. But he realized that was not information that he
had. He thought about it, and realized, while he was the main crux of the tale, someone else, or maybe
two, were going to explain how things were going to turn out, he wondered whether he was going to be
told. He realized, that did not matter, so he was going to be told off screen. That would have been a
nuisance, but Gio didn't mind, because he found a place, and that was good enough for him. So down
from from his space, back to reality, he moved his way around, and wondered what would happen next.
And so it did.

I was explaining how Gio was different from John. Where John was, more or less, normal, Gio was
different, very different. But after this, he knew he was different, and that's saying something, most
people who are different things think that fear normal and everyone else is deranged. For example, Gio
in chapter 1 didn't think he was screwed up all, you learned that after watching other people and
realizing that he was strange, not that they were.
That was major achievement, and do not forget it.
Actually, there's nothing more to say...

E
Acts of the Apostles
1
Are you, that is you'll be all right after graduation, yes?
It was Mary, and she was in fact worried.
On going from one college pursuing an undergraduate degree, to a slightly less upscale degree,
pursuing a Masters degree? It's all the same thing really, I just want to be with Gio, and this was the
best I could do.
Why is it that girls like him, myself included.
Because he's actually straight, when most of the boys like our gay, and we want to go out with
them anyway.
Why is that.
Because it's only one in 100 which we want to go out with, who is actually straight. The rest of
time we want someone like ourselves, which means they are actually gay. Gio is neither gay or straight,
so we can make him the way we want.
So gay is the new straight?
No, but it's enough for government work.
You got that from John, didn't you?
Yes, it's a good thing you and he didn't work out. He was not the sort of person who I would
have wanted you to go.
We tried, we really tried. But it didn't work out.
You know he's gay right?
Really?
No, I'm teasing, he is on the other side of the spectrum: he's straight, but doesn't know how to
do something about it.
That's what I thought, I'm glad you and I are in alignment.
Is not obvious?
Most girls, when have the time of day. They are interested in more reasonable kinds of guys.
Only they don't know that a lot of them are also weird, I'm sure there's research back up, but I wouldn't
know where to look, truth be told.
In the whole universe, that is the question, and one third of the males don't want answered,
because they are concerned that they might be damaged.
One day, when we get control, will do something about it. Until then, will try our best playing
the dating game.
We'll really work, truly really work.
I don't think so, but what are we to do in the meantime, some of us, and I do mean some of us
have needs to.
Or think we do, until we get in the back seat, and find out that our needs are not the same thing
as their needs.
That's certainly true.
We have a long way to go.
It's only been about 40 or 50 years, before then there was nothing to go on.
Yes we did, we had females who were males in the disguise.
Yes and they were reprehensible and what they wanted in return.
Isn't that the truth
That's pretty wretched if you think about it
Yes this is, but what are you going to do about it?

I don't know, but there is something that has been done about it, tonight you think?
There are a lot of things to be done about it, but what's the first thing, and what is the next
thing, and so on.
Why is it so complicated.
Because human evolution doesn't want things to be so neat and ordinary. It wants things
complicated, so in one time gets humans who are one way, and then another way it wants humans that
are different. And also remember, most people don't want to be extraordinary, in fact they want the rest
of society to be dumb as a post, in that way they can pick up who they want.
That's a really depressing thought. Note there aren't quotes around it, and it's not attributed to
anything specific on my part. It hangs there, it is a question for your self to answer.
They talked about many things, some of them best and complicated, and some of them tight like
line between two ships that are moving between each other. They talked about three or four things at
once, all at the same time. This is different from how man talked with each other, going in straight
lines, this was instead brought and twisting between threads, as if there was more to the threads than
could possibly be enumerated in one sitting. It was going to be a long friendship, and they would drag
their boyfriend in to the fray. That is often the way it is, not boyfriend-girlfriend, but two friends who
went drag themselves along with two-not-very-close friends behind them.
Dave and Julia were hidden part of friendship, they were very close, and not very close at all,
all at the same time. It was those two which formed a friendship, by not forming a friendship. Then
when Julia realized that there wasn't going to be Dave, she latched on to John and Gio, as if to say that
she was sorry.
That the dimension, that crystal clear friendship, unspoken, was running thread that was not
mentioned, but understood none-the-less. It was amorphous, but hard as a rock. Even though it had
many forms, the most striking one was that it wasn't there. It glistened, and it claimed, as the arriving
beauty Queen, but you know the rest of the story, or you can look it up. The other unspoken tale was
between Mary and Gio, she had had a crush on him for the longest time, though they spoke only a few
words, at Starbucks no less. She knew he was odd, and she was attracted and unattracted at the same
time, but she couldn't help herself from noticing.
That the real story, the one which wasn't spoken of but was, nonetheless, a current under the
conversation, though it barely registered as audible, and present. Every conversation which was had,
was dwarfed by the conversations that were not had, but were implied.
That's the story, what there is of it. It isn't really simple, but it appears to be, oh what a mess it
was, and the spaces are part and parcel, even though they don't really exist. Even though they didn't
exist, there as real as questions which were answered, directly. Even if people didn't want them, even if
people wanted them to not exist.
All the spaces in between, they were as large as what the context was. And then they dropped in
to the missed, never to be talked with again. But to slumber, to rest, never to be seen again. even missed
doesn't capture that. And most is the most commonly used word to describe it. All, Strange and
discombobulated, all threads of human frailty, twisting and turning, and not headed for words, but
backwards, as CPT is headed towards in one direction, and backwards in the other.
There are 1000 words, and more, and they mean nothing and everything. Just get them out of
the way, because there mean less, and all that is true. You know the words, hum if you know what they
stand for, and go on your way.
As a set, it is really the best example, but it will do.
Do do do, Da da da. It's all want to say to you.
There meaningless and all that's true.
Although it's true.
All is true.

2
That's not the whole story, in fact it never is, but we may pretend. And for most tales that's
enough. For its enough for stupid people who worry about tales ending, because most tales do have an
end. There are some tales which have neither a beginning, a middle, or an end, but also don't have
reason for being. They go someplace only in mind of creator, but everyone else realizes, there is
nothing there there, if you know. If you don't, will its not a huge problem.
Now, is the time for accounting, adding up which one is right which, one is wrong. In an
ordinary book you have to wish very hard not to sneak in all of at pages, this is different, because it's
drips and you don't know even if he knew. I know you people want to have all of the answers, but this
is not that sort of book. Don't worry, I'm not going to go all the on you, and keep churning out books
that are this way, most of them will have beginning middle and end, just not this one. It's clear most
people don't want to read this kind of story. But then you're missing out on some of the in between
questions. What is fiction versus nonfiction, how do you know? His story about few people, or his if
wider, to you care, some people to and you can't get rid of them, just so you know. There out there and
they don't want to go away. Its like Pleasantville they don't want to go back to the way it was. In may
take years, and I will probably be dead, since the odds for my survival aren't good, though there
improving day by day. But some day, will be able to hide from them, just as I haven't done so.
So what about Gio, and John, and the rest of these people. Sometimes the real, sometimes
they're not. And most people want to be real, and they want to control, in their own minds, to turn them
off, and turn them on, and do things differently than I, the author, want to do with things. You see,
imagination, the real imagination, is not inside the book, but powerful universe which has no context,
but is all round them, in our heads. And people don't want to think, how they will be different, they
want things the same, even though that's not possible. They want things to be controlled, and it doesn't
happen that way, because one out of every small population wonders what will happen if things get out
of control. Things are out of control, it just means small area inside our cortex, and there are a few
people who don't. Most people don't like this, for example want things to be the same, tuning in, or
dropping out, and shhhhhh don't tell them what's going on, or even tell anybody else what's going on,
its supposed to be a secret, secret that millions of people know but can't say, because well his secret, no
matter how many people know. Meanwhile there busy talking to people and saying things that they
really don't want to be said, and that's secret, and they don't want said. They're upset, there is one
outside my door which wants to be secret, but telling everybody you that they can't disrupt story,
because, well just because, the only one the secret to be revealed. And he's downstairs, going through
the motions, of getting only one person, a stupid person, to believe it.
Is there any question that he is going to get the fever, and believe that Dave is going to be that
religion? Is there any question that Julia will do anything he has of her? All of the questions that want
to be answered, will be answered in the text. What about wide universe, is there any question there?
Think about Einstein, think about Monet, or Carravagio, even though the questions have been
answered, they have been. And there is some more questions, about time about space, about the
meaning of things, this is not a book that prompts you for information, and goes on its way. I know
most time that the information will not be noticed. But for a few people, it will be, and I know, or I
suspect I know that this is going to be different, as with a few other books that are different. What about
answers that you know, and I don't? Like Guth for example, those are questions that are being
answered, even right now, and I know the answers, though I, the author don't. Think of something,
most properties are actually waiting for their turn to get on the market. This is not unusual, people think
money is a quantity, but it isn't. Its just waiting his turn, and most people are starting, though there's
money around then.
About me , my head is damaged, but today there home the time, my head damaged. I didn't
know what's going to become of me, though you probably will, not that you'll care in the short run, but

you'll care in longer run, even though you'll say why did I know about this? That's because, dearest
reader, you were asked on asking questions which really didn't need to be answered, but you thought
they did. And that's why I'm writing it, because if you people while on no in time. Other people, I'm
sorry it just wasn't your time, maybe someone will write a book and get it on to your shelf. And then
you'll discover this book and many more like them, and you'll be confused, it's not fiction and its not
nonfiction, it somewhere in the tween. Parts of it are fiction, but not all. Most of the time authors, like
myself, can find themselves to nonfiction or fiction, and only step outside the boundaries, in particular
ways. But they change with time. Read a book from the 1700s, and it is a trip, the other thinks that
nonfiction is nonfiction, and you laugh at how he, because it's definitely a male, with rare exceptions
will assume things which just aren't true.
Realize you to will assume things, and a century or so, people will laugh at you to. Doesn't
matter to the people who make money, but there only a fraction, and it will be a collapse since the
majority of people want to make money, and they don't realize that there's no possible way, they just
don't want to believe that. So they will hide books like this one, and point to God and money, explain
however they want to explain, that everything will be all right. And it will, until it won't. Trust me on
this, because they wanted to be trapped, except for them, but then gets to be too great a number, and
proof, it's as if gone with a dream. And then someone will say don't do that again, and they won't, for
60 or 70 years, realize it's getting longer, because 60 years ago life was shorter. Than someone, because
everyone who knew not to do that will be death, will say I can do this, and they will try to do this,
and maybe this time it will work, but next time it won't, and you don't know if your time is the time that
will get it wrong.
Then there are the titles. Of the main ones are from Hebrew, but littered around, in the
background, are Greek. And they don't line up, there is reason for this, but you'll have to discover this.
The Hebrew titles are actually from Greek, but some of them don't speak Greek as their first language,
and almost none of them actually spoke Hebrew, they spoke Aramaic, transliterated from Greek. They
transliterated there story from Aramaic to Greek, because they thought, and it turns out they were right,
that the Roman speaking word with be little grounds, because it had one thing that they were lacking.
That thing was paganism, which when brewed with Hebrew and Greek formed a strong band that was
totally lacking. Aramaic, Greek, Roman, all combined together. There was straightforward tales to
illuminate, their were tales that would be mindbending, and other tales which would be thought of as
one way, and then another, as the times allowed. Most of those people don't want to know what their
story is littered with. And they don't want you to know either. Because the titles aren't Greek, nor are
they Roman, the are English, but with a twist.
Oh, yes, there's a bit around the edges, and that is intentional. There really isn't one version of
the Bible, there are several, each one slightly different than last. And different translators have different
opinions about what these things mean. And then there's different translations of the Greek originals,
many of whom don't have copies of all. So that's the story. I will need to go back and then, there are
few questions and answers which I need to look up, then it will be completed. I will write this kind of
thing never again, I will do many other things, and all of the things will die, eventually. Just the
important questions will linger onwards. I will be waiting there, for whoever is going to listen.
Meanwhile there is a man who is speaking to a woman, hoping that she will notice what he notices, and
he has angle which she didn't know of, but will I do just a little bit after. Anyway, it's warm out here,
and I am going to take a walk. Don't worry, there is mood music. It's a you, what you want to do. Don't
worry I will still be here, even if my body is not
Do do do Da da da.
Is all I want to say to you. It's meaning less, and all is that's true.
You can look at up, and see that it's a Police song. Actually there are other things, but you might
not know them as much. But you'll know that one. And that's important, that you know the song.
Everything else can be looked up as you go.

I
First Letter to the Corinthians
1



The Stranger Abdolbari Jahani
Bloody night of bloody day, and bloody trail he was leaving behind him as he limped through
the dusty square, now littered with garbage, paper, and brass bullet cartridge casings. There were
spatters from wounds more grave than his. But no bodies, they had been removed. There were almost
puddled burned candles, and leaflets with verses from the Koran that tumbled as windward leaves of
human weeds that had been scythed down by assault rifles, and concussion grenades. It was 2006, give
or take year.
He was being followed, but not closely, they knew his hours were running out, and there was no
place to go, except out into the mountains, were sharper fangs than theirs would tear his flesh from his
body, while reading verses for his salvation. They would find him, saved from all temptations of this
world. Or perhaps only his bones bleaching in the sun with all the others, all the other would be
soldiers of empire that came before.
A head was a low bridge over a water way, and on it a burned out SUV, its front smashed in. It
was not burning, but there was the peculiar stench of flame seared flesh, mixed with the rancid touch of
hair, and the hanging oil of fire burned sweat encrusted clothes, a smell that was like the ancient sea
from which life descends. Even in the arid plateau, the ancient laws remained.
He dragged himself along, chanting in his mind to be one with the road, and one with the pain.
Be one with the road, be one with the pain.
At the third incantation of these words, he straightened and walked evenly, he knew it was
better to live long enough to have the leg re-broken and re-set, than to die with straight limbs. It was
too far to the airbase, and too far even to the safe house, or nearest good check point. He could not run,
even if he had been able to run. There had to be another way.
And then, he stopped. He saw crouched behind the burned out vehicle a slice of metal uncarbon
scorced. It was the east, and Kalash is his son. He pushed forward, and made no secret of it. The holder
of the weapon popped up and fired at point blank range, there was a short thumping of his chest, but as
he hoped, only one bullet had been fired, and it had passed straight through him, leaving only more
blood pouring into his lungs. God was not ready to call his Apostle back.
With the second movement, he had grabbed the barrel, spun around, and bent over. The young
man, shocked he was not dead, flew on to the ground, the beige scarf flying behind him. There was a
dull thump and it was an easy pull to dislodge the weapon. The young man tried to flatten his way to
the ground, and crawl backwards, his hands in the air.
A full squeeze left punctures in his eye, and neck, and then another through the center of mass.
Convulsing, he coughed. A third and it was at an end.
The Apostle looked left and right, and yet, no one stirred, on the faintest touch of dawn had
grown. Even in Kandahar, a killing would usually not have gone unnoticed, but the riot a few hours ago
had left everyone occupation, local, talib hiding indoors. The imprint of flowing sweat of fear was
on everything. He checked the young man, squatted down, and felt a pressure in his left lung. A pulp of
mucous mixed with blood popped out like the cork from shaken cheap champagne. He leveled the AK47, or rather, from the roughness of the stock, the Pakistani replica of a Chinese variant of the banana
gun, and let it rome around level, while he looked down and grabbed what he could from the pockets.
Not the money of course, he left that for the family, but the cellphone. A link.
Instantly he cradled it in his hand and used his thumb to fast dial a number. It would be burned
of course, after this, but this was the disposable number he dialed. One by one the tones came through

like a wandering hopping tune played on a bad radio. He listened for the buzz of a fax machine, and
then waited. On the other end, he hoped, the systems were doing their work, and locating him. He slunk
down, back against the burned out vehicle, a Toyota he could see from the misshapen remains of a
logo that had once been silver gray. He waited. The line hung up.
He nestled back deeper in, and waited to bleed out, or be picked up.
It was not long, not really long, before a distinctive sound sloshed in the air: the slice of rotors
from a helicopter. He tried to identify it by the signature sound, but one ear was still blanked out from
the hammer blow he had taken earlier, and his concentration was really on the hand trying to keep
pressure on the leg wound. Then it came, the whirring whine of a military turbine. Not a rotary. Not
civilian. One of his.
His extraction was on its way. It moved quickly and the whir became a roar. Dust foamed up
from the square, and the fetid odor of the water fogged over him. He waited, and winced. And waited.
It was the long minute, that minute between knowing that help is on the way, and that one well placed
RPG wound bring it crashing to earth. There were voices shouting, there was movement. There was the
sound of an engine turning over, an aged vehicle of some kind. It was behind him, no more than 40
yards a way. But it was that whe-whe-whe-whe-wheeze of a cold engine on a cold morning. Cold. It
had eaten through his jacket and was working on his skin. His ragged shirt had been shredded earlier to
make bandages. He pulled out the magazine from the assault rifle, and then pushed it one handed
beneath the hulk.
The vehicle turned over, and he could hear it crunching the pebble strewn road. Was it closer?
Was it away?
The dust swirls had become a dust storm, and the spinning sand bathed over everything and
anything. He slowly stood up, put his hands in the air, and walked gingerly, cellphone in hand, redialed
to the number. It was a Kiowa helicopter, operated by some contracting firm or other. Hanging out its
door was a man in black fatigues, and absent any insignia, he pointed an M-16, but at the same time
beckoned. Summoning everything, the Apostle jogged and was pulled in by four sets of hands, and then
found himself flat on a stretcher. Moments later, a mask was over his face and he could breath more
cleanly.
Sign? It was a lower register gruff voice. He was waiting for the code sign.
Using ASL, he signed out: One flew over the cuckoo's nest.
Fuck man, why couldn't the code maker have been a fan of Amadeus instead?
This one is in bad shape.
Lift. The door was left open. There were shots, but only small arms. He rolled his head and
could see a low slung off-road vehicle of some kind plowing towards them. Two men hung out the
sides and were blazing away with their rifles, but he could tell that the rattling and swerving of the
drive had reduced their aim to rubbish. He knew he'd had more dangerous days driving in LA. Their
was a growing pillar of dust around the chopper, and a growing fan behind the truck, but they were too
far apart. Clearly the vehicle had gone out and swung around, because the burned out SUV blocked the
small bridge.
He felt the lift as the bird leapt away from the earth, and the frame of the door was pointed to
brightening sky. Then, it snapped shut.
I don't know who you are Mister, but you are going to have to do some heavy dancing to
explain why we just did an extraction for you. Your company had better be good for it.
Oh yeah they are.
He then let himself fall back into the void of darker than darkness, only half caring if he ever
walked in the light again. But there was no tunnel, no voices, not soft flutter. He'd been closer to death
before. Much closer. This was merely a trip around the beltway, where he could see the city of the dead
from a distance, but was not touched by it.
What told him that he was going to live, was that he could dream. He dreamt of how he came to

be here, with snippets falling in different places, spliced with imagined memories of how he though the
rest of the mission would go. His excursion to Kandahar was only the antechamber to the ultimate
destination that this pilrimage would take him on. His Hajj was to a deeper and more prolific hell.
2


Amir Hamza Shinwari
It had to be secure, it was still on paper. Specifically a crisp manilla folder, of the kind that
signaled that the material within had been hastily collected, and was too sensitive to be entrusted to
electronic network. Of course, the intelligence community is filled with very sensitive people, of very
delicate feelings, so far more ended up in these folders than was proper, only to be entered into the
electronic form after it was too late to correlate with all of the other very, very, sensitive information,
from other very sensitive people. He'd seen it before.
The table was also ostentatiously nondescript, a plastic beige top, with black metal cylinder legs
at the corners, it's oblong shape was precisely two meters long by one and a half meters wide. And at it
sat two rather soft white men, with husks of white five o'clock shadow. The one on the left sported a
double chin and filled out his blue pin-stripe suit rather tightly, while the other was not quite as clearly
over-fed, but still had not seen hard mileage in a long time. The were bent over small blackberry's
thumb typing responses to the flood of messages that were marked urgent, and unread.
Neither looked up as a third man was ushered into the room by a uniformed Marine corps MP,
dressed in his best duty uniform, pressed tight against his thin chest and hard muscles.
This third man was different, clearly broad shouldered, a product of beef, milk, and corn, he
was not, however, soft in the way the two older men were, nor ripped and muscular in the way the
Marine was. Instead he had a quite heft to his torso, and bulk across his barrel chest and along his legs.
He was not quite built like a fire hydrant, but he gave the impression that a football player gives in a
suit: a kind of over-wide for italian tailoring. His suit was grey, with very fine gold pinstripes. It had
seen far more mileage than either of the others. It's softness from wear not detracting from its expense.
The window behind them, a broad panoramic view of a moderately wooded backdrop, had an
odd darkness and seemed to create artifacts to view. A skilled eye would have recognized that it was
polarized, and that lcd swatches were constantly scrambling to obscure vision in. It created the
impression that the outside world was crawling with insects slightly too small to see. There were
almost imperceptibly off white LED lights focused on the table, and the rest of the room, as a
consequence, took on a slightly blue-gray cast. There were filing cabinets, with one being of gray metal
with a combination lock that was clearly the GSA authorized secure cabinet, several wooden overhead
office cabinets, and on the left, a secretarial station with a wide screen and keyboard, the actual
computer hidden from view, or perhaps within the screen, it was hard to tell. On the right wall was a
large projection screen.
When the door closed, the on the window, horizontal and very thin, rotated shut, and the lights
increased. It was only then that the heavier man looked up and met the gaze of the man entering the
room. With that a false smile boomed across his face, completely absent the involvement of any muscle
above his nose.
Mr. Fischer, great to see you again. He half stood up and extended a hand across the table to
the broad shouldered man, who without expression stepped forward and accepted it. The second man
behind the table stood up and offered his hand afterwards, with these formalities completed, their faces
went back to neutral.
I would prefer we stick to professional names.

Yours has not been reactivated yet.

I have not been on the bench that long.
The second man allowed himself a very trace of a smile.
Special procedure.
Expedited. The heavier man added, his voice a kind of east coast metropolitan sharp.
The standing man, Fischer, raised an eyebrow. That is the charm of this department,
expeditious, in every sense of the word.
The heavier man soured only slightly, his face pulling forward as he spoke:Would you like a
chance to get off the bench?
Of course I would. That or be given the option for a decent retirement. You know that
Michael. He nodded to the heavier man.
Mike is fine.
Glad we are back on speaking terms.
We were running out of choices. He spun around the crisp folder and sat down himself.
Do I have a few minutes to familiarized myself with the case?
The thinner man slid a few documents.
You will need to sign these first. They are for your emergency clearance and the subject areas.
Thank you Gabe. Are these in addition to the ones I've already signed.
Mike piped in. Those are bogus. These are the operative documents.
Another eyebrow raise.
I see I am going to have to catch up on a great deal.
The folder was stamped with various access controls in addition to Top Secret. Fischer noted
one in particular: RESTRICTED. This is why he had been dragged off the bench, contractors and other
conveniently disposable people, such as interim clearance holders, could not see it. Hence reaching
down into the vaguely disreputable marginal members of the community.
He sat down and gingerly turned pages. He was immediately greeted with graphic images of at
least two prisoners, both with thick black hair, and seeming to be of vaguely middle eastern extaction
by their facial features. It was, however, dangerous to jump to conclusions. However what could not be
confused was that they had been the beneficiaries of a great deal of rough handling: splotchy bruises,
many of which were only partially healed, while others were fresh, a genera of dishevelment that came
from sleep deprivation and lack of access to sanitary facilities, a bloated look from being fed and
starved.
As he turned the front matter, and without looking up.
This is John's work.
Michael nodded, however Gabe spoke.
Yes it's the baptist's work.
An extreme rendition?
Michael spoke.
It is in the file.
It's on their faces. Is this his case, or is this merely prefatory?
This is product.
Am I under need to know the source?
Gabe leaned back. This is your case. John's missing. And we think he may have met an
untimely demise outside of Kandahar.
Do you have a proof?
Only partial, his right hand. The pictures are at the back.
So why not Coal. His Arabic is superb, while mine is sub-par, he forgets more about the
Pashtun and their dialects every day than I could learn, and he's been in country.
He's also been redeployed.

As in retired.
Nice to know. Why is it?
Personal violations.
What, that he spent his weekends with a mouthful of cock finally gave you two the creeps?
That was the issue, yes.
Fischer looked up and bore his eyes into Michael's. That's why he's so effective in the field. He
carries his own honey with him.
Gabe leaned over the table.
This is the kind of attitude that got you sent to the bench.
Fischer looked back and tilted his head with a slight smirk.
So I should have an attitude more like the baptists? That way the two of us could be pushing
poppies up together.
Coal is out. He failed life style and poly.
Unfortunate, he's better than any three other people for this.
You sell yourself short, you engineered a jail break in Afghanistan. That's no small
accomplishment.
That was a long time ago, under the Soviets. Completely different. And I was young then,
horribly young.
Coal is out, you are in. That's the word from the Office.
Wonderful, another Political Department production. Which fresh faced flunky has been
reading polls again?
That's the way it is. Are you on or off the bench for this one?
Fischer grimaced. I guess I'm in. That's the phrase of the season, isn't it?
Mike leaned back and Gabe slid the documents closer.
Sign these, then, and you are the Apostle again.
Fischer signed dutifully on each line, with his own pen, which he then laid down as he rotated
the papers back to Gabe.
Can we get down to cases.
You assume there is more than one?
There is the case the Baptist was on, the case that caused that case, and the case of finding
whatever remains of him.
Mike leaned back. The first you don't have need to know, the second is in the file. The third is
what we are going to talk about.
Excellent. Fischer leaned slightly in as if receiving conspiracy, or communion.
Mike took a deep breath. Gabriel, you can brief him on this. He stood up, slightly having to
straddle the chair beneath him before pushing it back with his foot with a slightly awkward half stomp.
He pulled out his blackberry and began thumb typing as he left.
There was quiet until the door closed.
Even less for formalities than ever?
He's under a great deal of pressure Avery.
Fischer relaxed and leaned back on his chair, adopting a happy grimace and smiling.
I don't have a need to know. So are you my case officer?
Expressly not. Michael will assign one shortly out of the pool.
I was getting worried that this was important. It isn't like we pull disgraced radical agents and
handing them SCI material with incriminating photographs every day.
Here's to hoping, for your sake, that these don't get wiki-leaked.
Fischer gave a half smile. For just a moment.
Glad to know you are always looking out after my interests. Shall you expound on the topic of
finding the Baptist?

This was a routine rendition and enhanced interrogation, we flew the subject by military
transport to Ram, switched him over to a flagged civilian craft to Yemen, where he was switched to a
medical helicopter and landed in Damascus.
Assad is still being helpful. That must be saving him the attention of the US Air Force, or any
of our Company irregulars.
It's a nasty world.
I'm sure you do your best.
Gabriel let his eyes narrow as he tried to figure out which end of that he was on.
Continuing, the Baptist was there to render the subject, whose connections with Palestinian
terrorists made it possible that some of his information was ticking.
Dubious.
How do you know that?
Fischer gestured at the part of the file that contained a synopsis of First Subject's dossier.
He's a fat former Iraqi security thug who has more thumbs than fingers.
You know him?
He worked for Al-Samedi, one of our more elephantine assets.
That's not in the dossier.
The Company is holding out on you. Al-Samedi worked for Langley as a plant in the INC, and
was sent over to Iraq, later rising to head of security and defmin. Subject One was one of his brokers. If
he has contacts with anything Palestinian, it has big tis and was born in the Bronx. We never let
anything native get near him.
Gabe leaned back.
Are you sure of this?
I can give you his case officer over at the company if you like. He'll confirm everything right
down to his taste in orifices.
You are saying this file.
Is a heavily edited concoction for your consumption. Subject One is a former low level asset
who worked for an asset. His job was procuring hookers for Baghdad defense ministry, along with
hashish, alcohol and assorted other vices.
Do you recognize Subject Two?
Fischer stared down.
No, but there are no fat Palestinians like that since Arafat.
According to the file Subject Two is associated with the Taliban, and is originally from Egypt.
Possible. My Egypt work was cover.
Something about children's health?
Telling Harvard graduates that they were making a serious mistake rationing medicines to
children, since the Madrasas were picking up families.
Your usual policy of tact in full force.
There are a number of people who might still be breathing if I were listened to.
That's what got you on the bench?
No, hasn't Mike told you? It was that blow up over Hyskos. After that I was ghost writing
security memos.
I read them, excellent work.
I'm complimented. I'm sure the termites think so too. He looked towards the secretarial station
and noted that the chair still had a slight depression from someone having sat in it. Mike only typed
with his thumbs, and Gabe worked with his mouth.
Don't under-estimate the importance of termites.
So the case officer has already been assigned.
Gabe startled. How do you know that.

Restricted. And no other eyes. Who ever was typing at that station, is on the case. Ergo, case
officer. Ergo, assigned.
Gabe flushed, he never liked being caught in a lie, however small.
It doesn't make a difference. Yes, an officer has been assigned.
By who?
You don't have need to know on that.
I would advise you to look more closely, there is already fluff in the file, and someone at the
Company is holding out on you.
I do not have random access to the Director. Maybe you do?
No but Jay is very talkative.
He's been warned to be more circumspect.
He doesn't like bungles. It makes the committee look bad.
You think this is a bungle?
Bungle in the jungle. Fresh imported cluster of fuck. It says here in the file. 'The ladden planes
flew in, and the empty planes flew out.' Why would the prisoner say that to John the Baptist, as if it
might save him?
That is as it should be, if this is a resupply: planes with supplies for Air America fronts, or
other Company activities in Afghanistan.
But then, he would not have said it as if it were something wrong. He'd have used it as a
defense against accusations that he was not doing his duty. But there's something else.
Something else from the file catch your attention? Gabe leaned closer, he also switched off
the recording system, and pressed erase.
Fischer swung the dossier around.
That's a fib. He pointed at the description of the fourth day of the interrogation.
How so?
Gabe, have you ever stuck a man's dick in a socket?
Gabe flinched again.
I haven't participated in enhanced procedures personally.
It takes two people, unless the subject is so messed up that he can't fight it.
So.
Day four, and it goes on for... glancing downward, nine more days. Subject One had plenty
of fight left. He wasn't going to get the fleshlight treatment without push back. There was a second
person. One to hold him down.
Gabe nodded.
Yes. That's the real subject of this case. He took the quizzical glance and added: It was
Mike's plan, if you couldn't see through it, you were out.
Happy happy. Joy joy. So who was it?
Jack Spade. We think he's gone rogue.
How, would you know?
I'm being serious.
So am I. How would you know if Jack Spade went rogue?
If he emptied out the accounts that he wasn't supposed to have access to and was last seen in
Dubai at an upscale hotel.
When was this?
Four days ago.
So my real assignment is to find out what happened, why the Baptist's hand was sent by
courier, and why the Jack of Spades is AWOL in Dubai?
Yes.
And they were on this rendition together.

Yes.
And the subject wasn't popcorn like Hamas, but something important that would legitimately
lead them to Afghanistan?
The Hamas connection runs from arms coming out of Kandahar. They call it 'Air Genghis' in
the file.
Ah, the laden planes of note. However, not a Palestinian angle, the only way the Saudis or
anyone, let's a Palestinian near Dubai is if they are cleaning a toilet. There isn't enough slush in Hamas
to afford two nights there.
Privately I'm inclined to agree.
So can we go back on the record, since we need to produce some bull to go with this shit.
After you give me your pen.
Sure. Fischer slid the pen over. But I warn you, it is clean.
I'll let the monkeys be the judge of that.
Sure. Now put us back on the record.
You don't want any more?
Why, so who ever lied to you can lie to me. The less I know of the party line, the better this
will go.
You have enough?
John the Baptist. Jack Spade. Play the players, not the cards. Just give me the real case officer,
and I will make my way from there.
This is starting to sound cowboy.
You'll follow my every move until I drop off the grid, no matter what.
Off the record, the real case officer is Brianna Perlmutter. Cover for this is Megan Bright.
He passed the pen back, having quietly wrapped the information on a rubber band around it.
Thank you Gabe.
Gabe pushed the recorder again, and they chatted over details of the file as if it meant anything.
Fischer read it while the talked, committing to memory the pictures, details of the rendition and
interogation. At the end of an hour, he slid it back. Gabe closed it, taped it shut, and checked it in to the
gray safe.
I think we are done here, Fischer.
Yes. I'll wait for the fluff bunny to call me.
Remember need to know when communicating.
Meaning, Fischer understood, that the fluff bunny couldn't know that he knew the real case.
Gabe buzzed for the escort, and a minute later the door opened for the MP who was outside.
They shook hands.
Fischer had walked in the room. And Apostle walked out.
3

. .

.
The Field Sher Zaman Taizi
On the shuttle to his appointment with the fluff-bunny, he was alone with his thoughts. The
name Avery Fischer was, of course, a fairly thin cover. Anyone in any position of experience would
recognize it as the name of a music hall on the Harvard University campus. His code name, Apostle,
had become a second nature to conceal, his birth name belonged to another place. It stared back at him
from his papers, and from those few places where it had not been scrubbed. But it wasn't him, and he

had trained himself not to respond to it. In a very real sense, to be in intelligence was to have so many
identities, that you had none at all, so many names that you answered to, that none of them was your
own. Hence, as with many people in many walks of life, he fell back on an internal nickname. But even
this he buried, lest it be the thread that connected him.
He began reviewing the case file as it was presented to him, knowing, as had been admitted, that
it was a concoction designed to transmit information, and hide it at the same time. He was, naturally,
suspicious of how quickly Gabriel had given in, because that meant that what had been given in was
the next fall back line. There were layers below and above.
What the file did have was two subjects of an extreme rendition, the first he knew from his
bubbly days in Baghdad, back when money flowed like oil, and oil flowed like blood. And both were
almost as thick as the water that came out of the pipes. He tried to work his way through how a man he
knew as Jalal, a low grade fixer for a shadowy American asset, came to be of such interest. His
experience was that Jalal didn't need very much persuasion. He'd been soft then, a product of ex-patriot
circles in London, too many thick meals and full pints. His sole talent was whining on command in the
right way to get leniency from whoever was needed.
He reflected back on a particular party, when Jalal had been pedalling somewhat overweight
southern girls as high quality flesh, under the din of very loud House music and under many coloured
lights that swung around. He was speaking loudly over the sounds of conversation in an out of fashion
version of the dialect of Baghdad Arabic. When Fischer had approached him, he switched to a kind of
britlish inflected with some American flatness that was the sign of taking a military course in English.
You like some rock to go with the roll my friend?
Fischer had waved him off gently, noting there was plenty of roll on the girls. Many people
liked that, but it wasn't the merchandise that moved itself. Russian blondes were in, and sometimes
dark African girls, uncut. But flabby locals, was a sign of not having connections. The drinks he handed
out were heavily watered, and below even Gordon's Gin, which in London had been the minimum
standard for American backed assets.
But in retrospect the loudness, the off the markedness of this man, began to become a point. It
was not that it was an act, it was that such people were unpredictable when turned, and prone to grasp
even at straws. Eight years was long enough to change anyone, and it would be unwise to assume that
fat Jalal of Baghdad's liberation, was the same man as the battered individual in the photographs. If
nothing else, two weeks of rendition, would remake a man in strange ways. A month would break
almost anyone, leaving behind only a husk.
He reviewed the pictures again in his mind's eye. It was very standard work for the Baptist: a
great deal of waterboarding, sliced thin, with bruising the face in ways that would fade nicely after
being flashed with hot UV lights. Sleep and food deprivation, mix with dash of psychological
humiliation, such as electric shocks to the genitals and stacking on top of other men in ways that would
imply eroticism, and shouting insults.
John was not subtle. And generally, he was the warm up, not the interrogator of record.
So the official line was that Jalal was rendered, and was working with Jack Spade. Jack was a
different character. Where as John was a garden variety sadist, who did his work with the quiet thrill of
a transvestite in a lingerie store, Jack was a wild card. He was not loud most of the time, but he could
blow at any moment, his temper erupting explosively, scalding anything within reach. He'd been
reprimanded several times, and was constantly on the verge of dismissal, or even permanent
containment, but he had a gift for turning up with a morsel that was to good not to use. And it was
always good.
Jack would beat anything out of anyone even if they didn't know it when he started. His gift was
knowing what of the drool of a broken mind was real, and what was vomited up from the pain. When to
stop. Knowing when to stop.
One time Jack and tried to slam a door on Fischer's fingers, and though he managed to move

fast enough to get merely a stub on the tips of them. It was close. Jack was quick, when not drunk,
easily quicker than Fischer, who was not slow. But no, he wasn't going to get involved in a second
quickness battle with Jack, the first one had nearly cost him a joint on his index finger.
Another time he'd been the one assigned to be Jack's minder while they held a subject destined
to be hustled off to Gitmo. The instructions were to have the package undented. However, that isn't how
it went.
The shuttle stopped, cutting short his musing. He gathered up his belongings and walked out the
front, down on to the sidewalk under the ugly 1960's style awning, though he knew it dated from 1975,
and walked to the front desk. He had the badge clearly placed, and went through the check point
routine, and then through the metal detector dance. He threw his gray suit jacket casually into the bin,
and then his bag, and his long passport sized wallet, and he fished his keys out, the large rental car fob
landing with a resounding thunk.
He took two strides, put his arms out like wings for the wanding, and then patted his chest and
pockets in a gesture to check for loose change or metal, and then stepped through the full body x-ray
scan. No lights, not a single peturbation to indicate a problem.
He waited, knowing that the fluff-bunny would be down to talk to him.
He looked at the beige granite flecked with black, resounding in its dullness. But what did he
really know? He had a faked file, and a dishonest debriefing, two case officers to report to. In the end,
what he knew was that Michael and Gabriel wanted him in the mix. Which wasn't generally
comforting.
Finally a figure walked out of the elevator lobby. He was of medium height, with a neatly
trimmed beard. There were bags under his eyes, and they had a slight bulge that had earned him the
nickname frog years before.
Boo. Nice to see you. He offered a hand. It was not accepted.
Boo didn't smile. Clearly both of them had a few billion people they'd rather be seeing.
I'm your case on this one, Fischer.
You're my tap to the White House.
Apostle has been reactivated.
I'm sure that will confirm when we get to the briefing room.
Indeed it will. Asshole.
They went to the elevator in silence, both submitted to the iris scans, and the elevator opened.
Once inside the looked at each other slowly.
Still running around with that baseball cap with the red 'W' on it?
Washington Nationals. It's a Nationals cap.
Whatever you say Boo. Your the director of this short feature.
Cool the attitude, Fischer.
If you don't like it, then get someone else assigned to this case.
We had someone assigned to this case.
I'm sure he cooked up nicely.
He didn't even make it.
Coal?
Yes, Coal.
He's a better choice.
He wasn't deemed reliable.
There was another generous scoop of silence that lasted all the way to the briefing room. They
sat down in the small, cramped, quarters, just barely large enough for the table and the screen.
I have to search your bag.
Without hesitation, it was duly handed over. After contemptuously spilling out the contents,
pawing through the compartments of the brown leather messenger bag, Boo dropped it on the table. It

was not in pieces for long, as Apostle put everything back into precise order.
Boo sat and watched as this was done, and then checked his watch.
This is scheduled for 30 minutes.
I won't waste your valuable time.
Let me go over the background.
The next 25 minutes was a recitation of the cover story that he had already pierced with Gabe.
Blah John the Baptist. Blah rendition in Damascus. Blah find out what happened to John, start by
interviewing the two subjects. Blah report back and wait for instructions. Blah tight travel
arrangements. Blah sensitive and secure. Blot blot blot. Blah Blah Blah. Blot Blot Blot. As usual with
Boo, he could not hide his desperation in the attempts to spin the story that both knew was false.
So what is your next step? Boo looked at him with undisguised contempt.
I'm going down to Dig to get some background files.
You access is severely limited, why don't you just request through me?
I don't want to waste, your valuable time. Shall we sign the paper work and get on with it?
No questions? No suspicions?
I never form a picture to early. No one here admits to knowing what is going on, and I'm not
going to presume.
Then sign these and we are done. There will be a box at the front. It has the usual assortment in
it. I'm expecting regular reports and check ins.
Apostle went down, accepted the box. He knew it had cellphones, papers, and explicit travel
instructions. He walked out, waited for the shuttle, and was soon deposited at Dulles Airport, near the
correct gate for his tickets. However, rather than immediately checking in, he took out the tracking
cellphone, went to FedEx, dropped it in an international rate box, and mailed it to Cairo, which was his
first stop. That should keep the hounds at bay for a while.
He looked around, he had three hours before departure. His next stop was an obscure airport
lounge that catered to government travelers. It had been that way for a long time, since flying TWA was
still hip and fresh. There, he imagined, he would meet the real case. His only goal was to get some
time, perhaps a day, to go and visit Dig and get the dirt. No one knew the village like Dig, and
especially not the comings and goings of the Village idiots.
4

The End Abdolbari Jahani
The lounge was aging, and even years of scrubbing could not eradicate all
the archeology of occupation that hung in the air. It was shabby, the seats were
cloth rather than leather, and the bar was under-stocked. No one would join it with
their own money, which is precisely the way its actual managers wanted it. He
checked in a the enamel front desk, staffed by aging, rounded women poured into
something that resembled the short airline flight attendant uniforms of days much
gone by, pretended to glance up at the flight information, and then checked in
under the name provided for this particular leg of the journey. The neat screens of
arrivals and departures only served to remind him that the rest of the world ran
on cool LCD screens, or hot plasma, not on the aged CRTs that once occupied the
worshipful attention of every four year old during Bugs Bunny re-runs.

He was escorted to the very tiny private meeting room, and sat down to wait.
He reflected on the trickle down: from grand suite, to cramped table, to two chairs
with a single small square between them, that had coffee holders.
Coffee?
Coke, no ice. Thank you.
Is Pepsi ok?
He sighed. Mountain Dew then.
Just a minute.
Morning may become Elecktra, bit it starts out sluggish.
He flipped through the cover documents in the file, giving him a cover, and
just enough backstory to fend off a customs agent on a busy day. However, the
rapidly splashed together nature of it made it clear that either he was simply
roadkill, or they were desperate. It did not have the unravelling loose ends that
mere incompetence produced. The names were good, not too outstanding, but not
too on the beaten path. This was a touch that always came from the better
handlers.
There was a knock on the door. It was the attendant bringing in the drink,
which she left on the holder and then walked out, her ample behind being the last
he saw of her.
He closed the folder, and stared at the off white wall, minutes passed, and
there was another knock, this was not an attendant, but it was a woman. He
mentally measured her against the impressions on the chair, and the
arrangement of items. She was the right size and height.
If the world of intelligence were like the movies, the person entering would
have been younger, insanely attractive, and blonde. She wasn't any of these
things, but then, real people will settle for a great deal less than hollywood, or
even bollywood, standards of beauty. The other reality is that if life were like the
movies, there would have been an instant zipless fuck attraction between them
that would crackle, implying that, some how, she would allow her feelings for him
to interfere with her professional judgment. Instead, there was no fluttering of her
brown eyes, not quivering of her creamy skin, no perking of her breasts, no
waving of her dull hazel hair, no straining of her body inside her very
conservatively tailored skirt suit. In short, she was a model of nonchalant
professionalism, and it was clear she had been selected for the cool detachment
that she brought to the table.
This suited Apostle fine. He'd had one really tangled affair on the job, with a
corn goddess swedish style knock out, an expert in telephony that he was closely
sweating with, and it had ended badly when her aggressively unpleasant
boyfriend became an issue.
Good morning. You are my case officer?
Well co-case. Boo is going to be the officer of record.
But I'm taking my bind instructions from you.
It's complicated.
Sounds like a facebook page, not an operation.
This is clean up on another case. We are hoping that it does not become a
formal operation.
Your cat, your bag. But I would suggest you file for a formal operation, that
they've appointed not one, but two case officers says that this is already wide

ranging. And donut money for a month Boo was the handler for the previous
case.
Can we get the forms done first? For this case I am your case officer for
State, and the report that goes to Foggy Bottom will come from me. She made a
deliberate gestures that dropped a smile pile of paper in front of him. These are
the acknowledgment forms.
He began, with some exasperation, to sign for the third time that day. This
indicated to him that there were trying to construct several plausible stories
through this case, to cover several eventualities. One, or more, of these meetings
would never have happened, and only the one convenient would be remembered.
The rest, after Orwell, would be down the memory hole.
He stopped, and then peered up at her severe features, her slightly bent
nose, her entirely hollow cheeks, her elongated face wrapped by elongated ears.
He decided the best option was to simply wait until she began talking. Almost
everyone would eventually.
So, I would like to begin your briefing.
You have my undivided attention. I never use it.
She giggled a bit, and then bit her lip slightly. Her manner became serious all
at once.
I don't know what you've been told.
Everything but the truth. And far less than I need to go on. I was hoping you
would be able to speak with some candor about the situation.
I can't provide you with much in the way of details.
This isn't going to end well if no one can give me enough guidance to avoid
embarrassing incidents. I can tell that the Company is involved with this, and so is
some sort of military black operation. State has inserted itself, perhaps as acting
as an honest broker, which is where you and I come in. However, so far I have two
conflicting agendas. I need to know what the purpose this case serves.
She took a deep breath, obviously understanding that he had guessed far
more than she had been instructed to tell them.
How do you know that.
Play the players. John the Baptist was Company, Jack is a contractor who
works primarily with the Pentagon. That they were on something together
indicates that the Company was involved with a black operation. Jalal was a DoD
asset, and the center in Damascus, is run out of State. So we were brought in as a
way of bringing focus on the two subjects. Boo is Company, and is a channel to
the White House, which means that it has some visibility upwards. Apostle had a
somewhat bored look on his face, as if he was reading this off a card. There are
strong implications that this operation involves Afghanistan, where, of course, the
relationship between Company and Defense operations makes the word incest a
rather feeble understatement.
She took several deep breaths, obviously trying to find the sheer nerve to do
what she was told to do, and just deny it all.
Here is what I can give you. She dropped a small USB drive on the table.
I was under the impression that these had been forbidden.
Well yes, and no.
What is it?
I can't say.

Are you aware of the contents?

Yes.
Have you viewed the contents?
Yes.
So you are on he access list for material that the Company is not supposed
to know we have.
Well, sort of.
I'm going to need more cooperation on this, or it will blow up. One agent is
missing, presumed dead. One is missing, presumed AWOL. As are the contents of
several accounts. We have dangling ends, no one has told me who the counterparties are, and what details of the operation are. I can't simply fly to Damascus,
ask random questions of the subjects, and then come back and deliver a report
exonerating everyone. I could, but it would be a humiliation if this were to break
loose again. I have a feeling that the Executive Office does not want that to
happen again.
Yes the White House has made it clear that they are watching this very
closely.
So it is in your own best interest to give me more background.
She took another deep breath.
I can confirm your speculation that there are four players: Company, DIA,
State, and the White House.
I need you to fill in the cards. Company supplies John the Baptist, DIA brings
on Jack of Spades. They have two subjects for enhanced interogation. What is the
subject?
A DIA-CIA project called Air Genghis.
Can you reveal details of this operation?
I don't have them.
So state provided a residence for the explicit debriefing of two subjects
related to this Operation.
I can confirm that, because you are to go there and continue questioning the
subjects.
About what? An operation that I don't know anything about?
No, about the disappearance of the Baptist and Jack.
Why did they leave Damascus. Was this authorized.
She hesitated.
Look, I need to know if they were off the reservation.
Miles off.
Air Genghis has a Kandahar locale.
Yes.
So did one or both go to Kandahar under authorization.
State received travel vouchers for both of the to Kandahar from DIA.
So that, at least, was authorized.
Perhaps, we think so.
Who is we?
The Intelligence Working Group at State.
That's Hampshire's group.
Yes.
So I'm working for Hampshire.

You are working for SecState, ultimately. As always.

Through Hampshire.
Yes.
So we are the producers?
Yes.
Do we have an asset on the ground investigating the Kandahar locale,
before the trail grows cold?
Coal was supposed to leave this morning.
But did not.
No.
And my orders are to Cairo and then Damascus.
Yes.
I need time to talk to Dig, originally I wanted a day, but it is clear that we
need to act with more alacrity.
I am not sure I can get you any time at all. You are supposed to leave in...
2 hours and 27 minutes.
That's not enough time to drive to her location, and back, with any
reasonable time in between.
Get Dig here.
That would be...
Do you want this to work or not? Right now State is on the line for allowing
an operation to blow up, and it will be pinned on State.
I can't get Dig for you.
Do we have a secure line?
What do you mean?
This is a government front facility, we must have the ability to get a secure
line to this room, or to some other secure room here.
I don't know.
He reached back and picked up what looked like an old ivory courtesy phone
handle, of the bulk that was simply never seen any more. He offered it to her.
Ask.
I'm not familiar with this facility.
Call, and ask for the manager. Then ask for this line to be put through to the
secure switchboard which will get us to Dig.
It's that simple?
No, but you don't have to worry about the details, it's done magically behind
the scenes.
This is going to be an expense?
Are you a case officer, or a bean counter from GAO?
We are trying to keep this expense within the black bag fund.
We aren't going to save money by having me run around in circles. Or
having to send another officer to bury me. And we can charge Bolling for it
anyway. The maintain the switchboard and set the requirements.
But they will back charge it.
Which will go on the general budget, and not be assigned to any given
project. It's just normal inter-department bookkeeping.
Oh, that sanitizes the charge you are saying.
Yes.

What do they teach people these days?

She took the handle and worked through the request.
She waited on the phone as it was honored. She then began talking through
the manager.
She covered the phone and stared across at him. Clearly looking for
guidance.
Should I call to clear this?
Do you have signature authority? Dig will handle the accesses to here from
her side, it will show up on her board.
I have signature.
Then don't annoy people by asking for clearance, unless they told you to.
He examined her face carefully, and judged that she had to be less than 30.
Very young. Another sign that State was simply not taking this seriously, or didn't
want him to come back. Boo was a world class pain, but he not only sold the
company line, he bought it, bathed in it, and used it as aftershave. He wouldn't
give up anything, and was a genuine sign that the White House wanted one of
their people with a line on everything that happened. The Executive Office was
taking things seriously, even as Foggy Bottom was not. It was not like Hampshire
not to be on top of things. Which meant this decision was being left to Michael,
and Michael was where he was precisely because he was sufficiently laid back to
not challenge his boss on any detail.
And he picked this girl for reasons that were remaining obscure. Was Wheel
out? Admittedly Wheel's time was better spent on analysis, but Wheel would not
let details slip through and could work the system. There were other people he
could name.
He sighed.
Are you alright? She held her hand over the phone.
I'm fine, it is just that it is clear this was not well thought through.
There wasn't supposed to be a failure. It was a routine rendition.
He stopped and pondered that. Routine rendition.
If only the world ran the way intelligence procedurals did, with crisp displays,
files delivered almost automatically, clean activity, in a buzzing efficient hive. Of
course much of the intelligence community did work that way, the part that
scoured through vast amounts of data for bits of revelation. The less you do, the
easier it is to do it. The big operations, such as the hunting of a major target had
massive resources, the big operations laid siege to their objective. The ordinary
was familiar, filed down, and so every bit had an in and an out. However, the
borders between the ordinary and extraordinary created frision. The military
thrived on initiative, the CIA lusted for improvisation.
State is stasis, and it showed.
Good news! We've gotten through.
How to handle the semi-competent, give them a task.
Excellent, is Dig on the other end of the line?
Yes. She is.
Good, finally someone who will help me make sense of this.
5


To a Friend Solyman Laeq
Hello Dig.
I did not expect to ever hear you again. the good not tell if she were
smiling, it was a neutral tone of voice. At best. Dig played her cards close to the
chest, even many people did not know she was a she. For a long time those who
knew, kept quiet.
Can't keep a hood man down.
This is not a social call.
Well, it is, no one knows the social workings of the village the way you do.
He could imagine the flutter of her eyelids, taking, but not placing any weight
in, the compliment.
And how can I help my friends over at State.
I'm investigating, he paused and began to spin out the story he had
organized for the occasion, a possible breach, or misuse of, INR facilities
associated with a routine rendition.
Do you have the case number?
Yes, but I need to read it to you, the facilities here are archaic, and don't
have a secure digital line.
Your up.
Her computer must be fast. She's at Langley now.
He read the identifying information.
I have it up.
I need what you can give my on the originating cases.
Most of it is not for your ears.
I am going to find out about most of it. Tell me what you can so that I am not
pounding sand.
He knew that Dig would be able to give him everything that was available,
and in such a way as to point to what was not. Dig was the best intelligence writer
that Langley had. Perhaps ever.
DIA originating case, Company resources involved. Rendition of Subjects.
One Iraqi national, one Afghanistan national, one dual citizen United StatesPakistani national.
Three?
Three. Two were subject to enhanced interrogation, one being held without
questioning.
Disposal?
Two are subject to indefinite detention. The third is not need to know.
Any background you can give me?
I can route background by diplomatic drop to your next authorized location.
Please do so.
Scheduled arrival is 24 hours.
Alright, knowing what you know, because I am sure you see more than I do.
And probably have absorbed half of it just scanning the files.
I can't confirm that, Avery.
No. But I am proceeding on that assumption. Assuming the information you

have at your disposal, if I were investigating breach of INR facility Damascus, what
should I be asking about.
There was a long hang, but not awkward. He could hear Dig's mind sort
through what was available to him, looking for a key word that he had access to.
As a friend, I would say, you would want to talk about Rafah.
Thank you Dig. What else would you advise me to ask about, as a friend?
Spring. I would talk about Spring.
Spring in Rafah?
No, I don't think that Rafah is a spring, but it might be a source. Or a
destination.
Thank you, Dig. And what do I need to know about executive involvement.
Oh, they are very involved.
Process or outcome?
You know that One is always interested in the process. There was a slight
emphasis on the w sound of one, that indicated that she meant the President.
He could visualize her round face, and shock of white hair, the way it would
be animated as her eyes played over the screen and she worked to pry loose
secrets for him.
Is Boo interested in the process?
Yes, Boo is one of the people interested in the process.
One of the people?
Yes One of the people. Meaning that he was reporting directly to the
President, through the National Security Advisor.
Is he interested in the product?
No, he's not interested in the product.
A sound like an old style cash went off in his head. He was being sent out, as
some kind of cover up.
Is the Company interested in the product?
The Company is interested in the product.
Probably burying the product.
And is DIA interested in the product?
DIA has a full dance card.
Meaning they wanted Jack.
Is there any involvement from other interested parties?
None in the community, and none in the family. No other friendly
consumers.
Meaning no US or NATO intelligence.
Other potential parties?
Green door on that one.
How green?
Flying colors.
Islamic nations, while also saying she wasn't supposed to say that. A green
door is information that has been restricted. But the flag is definitely a reference
to the green flags.
Other than myself, is there anyone throwaway that I should know about.
That's your ears only.
Send by diplomatic drop.
He looked over at the case officer. She didn't flinch, which meant her blood

was ice cold, or she didn't get the reference: specifically, that she was considered
an expendable asset on this assignment.
Anything else that would be helpful, Dig?
Ask your case about Leon Panetta's plaque.
He shook his head.
You are too swift for me.
You need to take some time off. I remember you liked to vacation near Santa
Cruz and especially Monterey.
Yes, thank you Dig. I'm sure I could use some refreshment.
I have to go now. Tatatilnexttime.
TTNT Dig.
He hung up the phone.
You should expect travel orders.
She shook her head and looked at him blankly.
You attended the Defense Language Institute.
Yes.
Which languages do you have?
Pashto, Dari, Farsi. I did the Indo-Iranian track. What is this with Panetta, he
is going to be SecDef.
He's also DLI Hall of Fame.
She told you to ask me.
Because you are going to be much closer to the heat than you expected.
She looked at him, and then her Blackberry buzzed. She checked it, and
began scrolling through menus and information.
You are right. They are routing me to Damascus to keep close eye on the
case.
He nodded.
I am sure we are on separate planes. We will have to catch up in
Damascus.
She swallowed.
I'm not supposed to be in the field.
Nor under it, I hope.
She swallowed.
I'm scared.
You should be. This is Charlie Foxtrot.
CF
I really hope that hasn't fallen out of currency.
She looked at him.
He mouthed Cluster Fuck.
She looked at him.
He stared back and without a trace of pity intoned:
It is time to put childish things away.

II
The First Epistle of John
1


The Picture Rahmat Shah Sayel
His voice was different, it no longer sounded like a South American, which is a distinct sound. Long
years of training had made him sound like an American, though his skin was a trifle too, something or
other. But in points it betrayed the rumbling that suggest he wasn't really American, but taking it rather
well. Many people would not notice, but a view people would. The Charlie in Charlie foxtrot was off.
The room was fetid hot, with a small ceramic heater providing the fetid, and the
bodies, military, contractor, and civilian providing a boost that curdled the air into
a swamp like concoction. There was the rank smell of bandages that needed to be
change layered on top of a melange of sweat. Acrid, musk, fox-like, all competed.
Most of the bodies were men, but a few were women, two from the local Air Force
base, who had crowded near the front.
So, how exactly did you get out? The fire fight was 150 clicks up-range, into
the mountains and across scrub wood. With a limp and a lung shot?
The lung wound was very fresh. And the leg wound only a few hours older.
We weren't combatants in the fire fight.
We?
Yes, the other officer was still with me at that time.
But he's not now?
OK they haven't gotten anything from state yet.
No.
So why don't you go back out to the fire fight, and tell me exactly how you
got back 230 kilometers on the ground, a 6 hour drive on the roads, on foot, in a
day.
It wasn't on foot.
How did it happen?
He stopped and tried to game out the situation. He could dead end things
here, and then hope that either Director Hampshire, or even the White House
through Boo would know what was good for them, avow him, and cart him away.
He'd be burned as a field agent, and would be back to Dilbertia, but State, or
someone, would have the product, and could roll up Jack before turning the corner
to the real Patron of the operation, however far that would go. Cooperation, small
wins. However he, personally, would be better denying the Director, coming up
with his own cover, and then go illegal, without official cover. Then if State, or the
Executive disavowed him, it would be better. But if they said he was one of theirs,
total blow up. On the other hand, if he kept quiet, and they disavowed him, then
he'd be roughed up here by the local security officer just to prove he was off the
reservation and then Hampshire could have him carted back, and have a great
deal more leverage to make sure that he would be completely forthcoming.
Or to put it another way, if both sides in this little game jumped the same
way, it was the best case scenario, but if one side played it straight, then, well. No
good deed goes unpunished.

He sat, pretending to shake back and forth slowly, as if his injuries were bad.
He let his eyes droop.
Some one get him some water.
He waited for the water, drank it in small gulps, and then started. What would
Hampshire do? She'd betray, of course.
I was flown back.
How? Did a plane just fall out of the sky?
No, it was the ultra-light that my target had flow in on.
And he just happened to have one.
He was an officer who had gone rogue. He was here to sell out.
Did he?
Yes.
So why are you telling me this.
I'm not here on Company business. I came because I knew that whatever
score there was to be made was on the table.
So you were here to gray mail him for a slice of the action?
Essentially.
Where the proof.
I can give you the GPS of the cave where his body is.
Did you splash him?
I was doing him a favor, the Talib had already amputated his hand and his
foot.
You sure he wasn't captured?
He was compromised.
When? How did you know?
A long time ago. I knew then, I think.
So you knew him?
After a manner of speaking. In any event, why don't you get me a GPS to
upload to, and you can check the proof.
What I don't understand is why an officer would just come out and decide
that having his limbs hacked off and living as a double amputee in Kandahar was
his best career move.
They had leverage.
Ah.
Go check the proof. I can wait, I have nothing to do but heal.
You think you are going to get away with murder?
It wasn't murder, I was doing him, and you, a favor. He almost certainly had
more to say.
The tent was cleared, and he let himself be shuffled to the brig. They weren't
going to do any high impact dental work until they knew where things were. He
was also waiting for the diplo attache to arrive and tell them he was off the
reservation.
But when they got the body, he'd be walking out, without problems. Because
like any good spook, he'd blown the dead man, and told enough of the truth.
John the Baptist, had confessed. Sadly, he was not sure exactly to what, or to
whom. But it was inevitable, before he even was John the Baptist, he had been
made, compromised, and left on the shelf until needed.
It was a long time ago, they both had been very fresh faced an young.

Neither even out of college. The place was Kabul, and he had been sent to do the
simple task of getting an agent of an Afghan prison. Why him? Why then? He had
excellent Russian, and could cram passable Pashto in time. He was totally
expendable. John, even then, was not.
2



Love Hassina Gol
It whined in his ears from a stretched tape on his walkman, the tinny speakers simply unable to carry
the drum smack or the bass thrum. This was the last decade of using walkman . Look up on the wall.
He'd had a friend rig up a clock to his cassette player as an alarm. There was only yellowing hall light
coming through the crack in a door that wouldn't close. The outside was that kind of dark he hadn't
known since he was very small, and living in a remote flat part of Ohio. The dark kind of dark, where
the stars leap out at you. He could feel a cold draft that came from the crack in the window.
He shut the tape off, the startle had been enough to get him to come to a
full, if edged consciousness. He rolled into his jeans in a single motion, and
straddled up the belt that he had not even tried to untread from the worn loops.
His hard abs and thin body were uncovered. He had to tighten the belt a notch
farther than when he came. The food didn't agree with him. He thought food
should be food. It was of a different opinion. Mushy uncooked grain in a variety of
mixtures with liquids unfit for human consumption alternating with balls of the
same material, days older, only cooked to desperation.
He looked down both directions of the street in Kabul where he had taken up
lodging. In the distance on the left he could see the outline of the dome of the
large mosque whose name he kept forgetting, and then near it a large soviet era
slab concrete high rise. They were just visible against the massive backdrop of the
snow capped mountains that Kabul was nestled in. It reminded of many vistas in
the American west: Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Reno, a city in the hollow of the
palm of the mountains. Sitting in the hand of God. First a low brown line, and then
the higher ones that shrouded the rim of the sky. Dawn came slow, and it got late
early.
He'd dropped in to this place two weeks ago. The altitude was no longer
causing swelling headaches, he'd learned to get over them more quickly than
most from his life in Denver. That's what he called it to himself, a sweaty shacking
up with a girl who was as much prostitute as girlfriend. He'd gone back to college
after and completed his degree, angry and horny, because dating seemed to him
to be a waste of time. Nothing like falling into bed and staying there except to eat
and fight to teach a young man that there is no such thing as no strings attached.
He sipped from the brackish cup of coffee he'd left from the night before. It
had been made turkish style, so what remained as closer to silt than liquid. At
least it was sweet, though he wasn't sure he'd ever add honey to coffee ever
again.

He through the flannel shirt over his torso, it hung, baggy and too big for him,
though his shoulders were stretched tight across the back. The last dregs of coffee
taken, he pulled a trick he'd learned at an inn on the bumpy ride in. He walked to
the window and threw the cup down, smashing it. He did that with two or three
small plates as well.
There was a stirring below and lights came on. There was a shouting from
below in Pashto. He shouted back down. I heard you. How much for breaking the
dishes? The price was equivalent to a few pennies in America. He called down, to
bring me morning coffee and yoghurt and he would pay for everything. Not until
then. Minutes later there was cgoffee, yoghurt, fruit, and the ubiquitous porridge.
He paid in local paper, not wanting to give away that he had dollars, though he'd
confess to Indian, Pakistani, or even Russian money though with the withdrawl
already well advanced, they locals weren't keen on that either.
However, if 4 cents was what it took to get room service, so be it. Also made
sure he'd get clean dishes, rather than just new food on old plates. He'd seen that
too.
He was up early because it was another day of waiting, and when one waits
in a nation that is both Soviet, and South Asian, you had better get an early start
on it it.
He gobbled down the food. You don't buy food in Kabul, you rent it. On the
way out he grabbed some vegetables and yoghurt in flatbread, and trundled on
his way to the street car stop. He caught the first one, which was only 15 minutes
late, and sat down. He was always looking around, but there was only the same
morning people who had been on that same street car since his first day, most of
them every day. He rode to the police station that handled jail requests. The first
day they pretended not to understand his Russian, he bribed the person at the
window with Western cigarettes, and amazingly his Russian improved. The second
day they pretended that they were not the right place to go. He bribbed the
person at the window with a pair of nylons and some lipstick. Amazingly it turned
out this was the place to go, but they had no idea what he was talking about. The
third day they pretended that they had never heard of the person he was talking
about, nor anyone meeting his description. He bribed them with a Sony Walkman,
and amazingly, they told him the could find him the next day. The fourth day the
building turned out to be closed. He bribed the guard with a pack of Marlboros,
and he was let in. Once in he was told to leave. He sat down and began
distributing western playing cards. They told him to wait. Later, he was told that
the office would be closed again in a week, and he would be able to talk to a
commissar who could help him, but that he would have to wait every day, so that
no one would know what special treatment he was getting.
So every day he waited, passing the day playing solitaire, writing notes on a
small pad with a cheap pencil he had acquired in Pakistan. This was Day 10.
Tomorrow the office would be closed, and he wondered what he was going to have
to pay to jog their memory of the promise of a weak ago. He was thus, surprised
to see a person come out of one the offices not long after his arrival, while the
walls were stained with morning light.
You are the visitor?
There are many vistors. I am looking for a friend. I am sure he is in jail in
Kabul, and I came to see what I could do.

Yes, he's in bad shape.

I can imagine. Can you take me to him.
Yes, but you have to buy food and bring water for him.
He looked blankly.
Go hurry, come back in an hour, but go behind the back. There will be a
truck. Don't let too many people see you.
He ramped out, hit the market for fresh food, and dried meat, bottled water.
He made the truck. It only cost two packs of cigarettes to get on board, the
soldiers pulling him on laughing. They smoked the undented Marlboros as they
bumped along to the edge of the sprawling city of more than a million. It seemed
to go on and on, through roads that were clogged with animals, carts, trucks,
pedestrians, and even motorcycles.
Finally they left the back streets and headed towards the glowering gray
stone castle like walled fort. It had squat grey stone towers, that were not high,
but which had walls that were quite thick, joined by walled causeways that ran
around the outside. It was Pul-e-Charkhi, the jail that he had feared his friend was
in. Without formalities the truck drove in behind several others, and the gates
slammed shut. But once in each truck was searched. He surveyed the inside, most
of the clutter of stone looked old, though there were a few new tile and concrete
soviet buildings. But in the main, the dust on the ground, the They reached a
building which had iron bars in the windows, and was clearly the main entrance.
With a slight shock, he realized that it had been built of red brick by the British,
lord knows how long ago. It had been a jail since gaslamps. He reached the door,
but let himself flow in with the soldiers. No one stopped him until he was into the
hall cum antechamber.
You the American?
He flushed, he had never said he was, and his cover was not as an American.
If you want my dollars.
Your friend is very sick. He might not make it.
D'oh. They hurried things up because if he died they would not get anything.
I want to see him.
I don't know where he is.
With a heavy sigh he took out a C note. He ripped it in half and gave half to
the guard.
I want to see him and talk to him. When I leave, you get the other half that.
The guard pushed aside his fellows. Clearly he wanted to keep the windfall.
I can walk out and I will just tell his family he is dead, and that people will try
and defraud them.
I get him. I get him.
Speaking English after three weeks of not letting himself utter a word felt like
taking a metal mask off.
He was led into a back maze of small rooms with bars across them. Finally he
reached a cell where an emaciated figure clothed in a white cloth and wearing
only ragged sandals. He almost called out his friends real name. He stopped
himself.
Jacob.
Russian, use Russian.
Yes.

His friend let his head roll over.

Open the door. It is unlocked.
Ah. Yes. Where is he going to go?
The door swung inwards, creaking loudly, and he walked in, dropping the nap
sack filled with food.
I brought food.
Listen. I need you go to a man, and get Pen.
Antiobiotics?
Yes. I know the man to go to.
No need. I have some. He took out the full course that he had been issued,
and handed it over.
I need the needles. I won't digest that.
A few moments of fishing brought out the self stabbing needles.
I have these.
That's good.
Leave the food and the water.
We will get you out of the wilderness, Jacob.
I know you will. But you need to wait to get me out.
No worries about that, Jacob, just seeing you was the work of almost two
weeks.
It will go fast when it is time. You just need to bribe the right person, with
the right bribe.
I don't know how to do these things Jacob.
There will be a station chief, he will help you. I will tell you how to get to
him.
Why didn't he come.
And burn himself?
Why didn't he send someone?
He had you sent for.
Why not someone local?
And burn them?
But won't I by going to him.
You'll go to a well known expat who sells opium.
Ah.
That's why people come to this hole. They are addicts. And it flows like
water here.
I'm an amateur at this. You seem like the professional already.
Who is going to walk out of here at the end of this conversation.
A that moment his friend finally got the energy to stab himself with the
needle. There was a wince as his almost skeletal frame shook with the pain.
He dropped a bandage. On it, written in Russian, was an address.
Do you have a cover?
Go to the second one. They know I am an American, and they guess you are
too. Have you been with any Americans?
No.
Start.
Why?
They will want to know you have dollars. His friend coughed. Who ever

chose the Russian cover was being foolish. No reason not to be an American here.
We funded their revolution.
We sent planes with weapons, and didn't want anything.
Yes. The filled planes flew in, and empty planes flew back. Now go.
Why use Russian if they know we are Americans?
Because they have someone who speaks English listening in, not Russian.
He's very good. I need to be this good.
No. Better.
How he got out would have made fascinating telling, it involved a massive
bribe, dosing a guard with a fatal shot of morphine in an improvised hypo gun, a
stolen motorcycle, with his friend gripped on his back every foot of the way a
covert fishing boat to the horn of Africa, a flight to Athens in an old mail DC-3
which nearly ended with a crash, and then a seemingly unending debriefing. But
he would not tell those details here.
The story ended, and he became aware of the intent stare. Everyone else
was gone, just the Lt. Colonel, and two MPs.
You sure this is the same guy?
I'm positive.
And so 20 years ago you sprang him.
And so 23 years ago, I helped bring him home.
He was a member of the community then.
Yes.
So they sent you this time because you knew something about why he
turned?
No. I told you, I came because I knew there was something on the table.
Well, I don't know how much to believe, but I am going to wait until the
Company representative gets here.
That's a fine idea. Let me bleed in peace.
You are in a lot of trouble.
For closing a leak? Perhaps I am.
We don't like people meddling in foreign affairs.
Fortunately, it isn't your call. Wait for the station chief, and keep me
sequestered.
You seem awfully hip to be in custody.
I've been shot twice in the last day, I have a feeling that custody is the
safest place to be.
The Lt. Colonel turned to the stare aheads.
You didn't hear any of this. Not one muffled peep. If anything leaks, I'll
personally be crapping down your cum dumpsters.
The two MPs stood up straighter.
Sir, yes, Sir.
The Lt. Colonel placed a call for two guards and an orderly. Minutes passed,
the Lt. Colonel sat on the edge of the table, and looked at him.
I don't like you.
I'm not in the hospitality industry.

You contractors think you own the place.

No, we just work for the people who own you, Lt. Colonel.
The orderlies arrived. And with that he was slowly rolled on a wheelchair to a
truck, driven to the medical wing of the base jail. And left, for all he knew, to rot.
3

A Book Unread Safia Sediqi
The next day he was woken in time for morning meds. The Lt. Colonel was
sitting on the stool at the end of the bed watching the proceedings. He motioned
for the nurse to leave, and after doing rump recon as she left, he turned to
Apostle.
We received a communication from someone at State. He said that he would
be coming personally tomorrow to debrief you, and he is in transit. He states that
your activities are unauthorized, but that you fall under diplomatic jurisdiction. I
could make an issue of it. He let the pause hang.
There is no upside to that decision.
No, I don't think there is.
Did he have any further communication?
Yes, he did.
Which was?
I quote: 'I am going to want to know why he left Damascus.' end quote.
Why I left Damascus... That, of course, starts with why I went there. Or
rather, why I was sent there.
The commercial flight from Cairo ended without incident, though it was worse
than the last time he had flown, and imagined better than the next time he would
fly commercially. He took his bag out of the overhead, stood in the slowly moving
emptying of the cabin, and headed for the back end of the airport, whence would
be waiting a small private plane. He would have access to secure facilities on this
leg of the trip, and he could review information. It had been a kind of dull ache in
his mind that material he needed to wrap his hands around the case was sitting
mere feet away, and yet out of reach. He watched episodes of random cable
comedy shows to unwind.
He walked through wide white granite concourses, with soft wavy ceilings. He
walked past a set of benches set up like a boat, past glass statuary. His pace was
deliberate, he was heading for the new Terminal 3, which was not in full operation
yet, much better to avoid prying eyes. The crowded throngs fell away, which
ebbed and flowed even though it was deep into the night, and there was a quiet

emptiness in stretches. He went to the small distant tentacle of the terminal,

where a small gate, manned only by a single woman rested. He showed his
identification, accepted the fingerprint scan, and walked aboard with that bored
stiffness that people often affect when their minds are someplace else.
He was greeted by a young darker skinned woman with severely pulled back
hair, and looked into the control deck to see two pilots. All this for an hour of time.
Mentally he rolled his eyes, after having to argue over a minor charge back, while
this kind of pure waste was put in play.
He made his way in skipping steps down to the tarmac, where the small
plane gates were. Once he reached the ground he found himself under an orange
walkway canopy. There were two planes, one a small passenger turbo prop, amply
lit with the door inviting open and a young woman standing it it, beyond that was
a larger cargo style plane, with no windows after the flight deck. It was absolutely
unlit, and a group of heavy set men were frantically taking boxes out of a truck, it
to absolutely without light, and hurling them from hand to hand in a chain to be
placed on a belly loader for the cargo plane. He stopped, and then hearing
footsteps behind him, he half stepped out of the way, allowing the individual to
bump shoulders as they passed. What entered his frame of view was another
heavy set man in a jumpsuit, one that was heavily stained and worn. Apostle
knew he could not pass for Egyptian Arabic, but he wailed out, and the man froze
in his tracks.
The man turned, and on seeing that he had bumped a well dressed foreigner
went instantly from belligerent scowl to obsequeious blank grin.
I'm so sorry.
How is the loading going?
It's good. It's good.
Apostle paused, trying to figure out how to pump the details he wanted.
We had complaints about the last time.
There will be no problem. No problem. It will get to Libya on time this time.
There are doubts.
These planes that stop in Gaza, the are always in bad shape when they get
here. You don't understand the troubles.
Just see to it there are no mistakes this time. It isn't like you need to unload
it.
By the will of Allah there will be no difficulties.
With that Apostle turned and skipped easily up the steps to his plane. No
contradiction of my assertion that the plane was empty.
He gave a short greeting to the F/A, and turned into the cabin, settling in to
the tight cluster of seats that made up the executive area, with a tiny desk. That
was the nature of these older propeller planes, less luxurious than the jets. But it
was more than enough for him, so long as they had a secure link to the outside
world.
This is the flight deck, we are going to be delayed in our departure for 2
hours. But you can relax and have a drink.
Another internal eye roll. He walked to the front and knocked on the flight
deck door. It took a moment to unfold the small sliding door.
What's up?
I'll need a secure uplink. And if you could have the F/A snag a sandwich, that

would be great, I didn't eat on the two long legs.

The first officer nodded. I'm on the link. Reshma, can you get some work
friendly food for our passengers?
That's the delay.
Yes, a Ms. Bright will be joining us.
Ah, change in plans.
Thank you captain, pleasure flying with you.
Thank you Mr. Kane.
He settled in, set himself up, without opening any material, and waited for
the food to be delivered, and then once the F/A had left, set the executive suit
door closed. In media stories, he would have flashed an instant look to her that
would set off a smoldering attraction that would be requited at some plot friendly
moment. It wasn't that things didn't happen, but in the real world of intelligence,
they went in more tawdry directions, and were far more infrequent than the Bond
fed masses would believe. In every security service, sex is on the top of the list of
temptations to avoid.
Once secluded, he set to work rapidly. He thought for a moment, and realized
it was still a relatively sane hour to try Wheel's work first. It took some time for
the connection, because part of being secure is always taking time so that signal
analysis can't tell how it is being routed.
Wheel. This is a secure line.
Greetings. This is Apostle.
I thought you'd been shrouded.
Reports of my death are inoperative.
I'm assuming you are on an active case.
I have digital link, so you should be getting key information shortly.
I'm not on the synoptic system yet, I need the case identifier.
He duly read it off.
Got it. Give me some time to pull up the files.
While waiting, here is what I need. I am going to send you some files,
specifically manifests of a flight operation. I want you to apply your practiced eye
to them, and tell me why they were managing the metal this way, and what the
likely cargo loads were.
I can do that, but it will take time.
I will leave a diplomatic drop.
Is there something I should be looking for?
Yes, planes that arrive laden, and leave empty.
Find the dead ends of the system?
Planes that arrive laden, and leave empty.
Anything else? I have a great deal else on my queue.
I know you do, which is why I am going to spike the punch.
With?
Jack Spade has done some unfortunate things. I am going to catch him.
Specifically, Wheel hates Spade because of his role in promoting certain
fictions about Iraq. Unfortunate.
I will make space.
I am very appreciative.
I never thought you respected my work.

On the contrary, I admire your tenacity, and the quality of your product, as
well as the perspective you bring, when given a chance.
Just don't let Director Hampshire know I was involved.
Is there a problem?
Not that I would like to make public.
So that means, in a word, yes.
Please don't pry.
Just because she's your friend, doesn't mean you like each other.
I will work on this, I have the manifests.
This is absolutely invaluable, the keystone of this case.
You always did place a great deal of faith in logistics.
It isn't what you do, it is who you do. And where you do them.
What was your other favorite?
Lombardi's Golden Rule: Do unto others, before they do unto you.
Who are you doing right now?
No one.
Your haven't put the moves on your case?
No, nor am I going to. I am nowhere near as promiscuous as my reputation
might have people believe.
Be careful, or I might decide to look at your credit slips and expense
accounts and find out what is credible and what isn't.
I am very sure that you would be to the bottom of my nefarious activities
quickly. Of which I do in fact have a few.
I will stay and work here, so you can reach me at this number until at least
21:00 Eastern.
I really appreciate this, I know it is a huge favor in your busy schedule of
being roundly ignored by people with lesser capability.
Kthnxbi.
Out.
The laden planes flew in, and the empty planes flew out. Why would that
save Jalal, and kill the Baptist?Wait. I don't know it has done either, yet.
The next two and a half hours were of productive study, but monumentally
boring and without great insight. Far away, some sort of a was heard. It was a
crash and then a throbbing rumble as it ignited something, he did not know what,
into flames. This was a common occurrence, and no one mentioned. Though it
registered on every single face.
He was more like a whale that swam through the waters, gulping down krill,
and moving on. He let go of his obsessions, because the easiest way to miss
diamonds, is to be searching for lesser stones. It was essential, above all, to avoid
allowing a picture to form. The material was shapless, and he was holding off on
the most crucial part, namely, the videos of the interrogation.
Well, more and more couples are watching porn together. And I imagine that
what's on that drive constitutes torture porn.
I want to see Ms. Bright's reactions and hear her thoughts. I am positive her
languages are far better than mine.
Then, almost without warning, the door slid open. On the table were a liter of
wrappers, paper notes, as well has his lap top. He looked up slowly. His case

officer had changed clothes into a very casual jeans and top, and looked more to
be heading to a shop through an LA mall than to a dark site in Damascus. She had
a colorful scarf, large plastic rimmed sunglasses, and a light brown leather hand
bag.
He nodded, and cleared off the space.
I'm pleased that we are going to have a short time to synchronize. Your
idea?
Yes.
She closed the door, and then locked it.
I'm frightened.
You should be. I have some things to tell you in strictest confidence.
She settled her self down, crossed her legs, and had that delicate equipoise
of genuine fear. Her back arched forward, even as she tried to straighten her
posture.
First, I was told by Dig that you would be sent into the field on this one, and
that you are considered expendable.
Are you?
I wasn't told, but my assumption is that my death would be positively
welcomed.
What is going on here, what is this?
It is an operation gone wrong over an operation gone wrong. By the time
they are calling in the Baptist and Jack, it is because they are past plumbing the
leaks, and in full scale cover up. Jack, in particular, is crash and bury. They would
like people to believe that it was terrorists, though everyone who is in the know
will not by that.
So they were in Damascus, trying to cover up Air Genghis, or something
related to it.
Yes.
And Jalal was someone involved in making it work.
Yes.
Why rendition. Why... torture. What information did they want?
The first rule of torture, is that you don't torture to get information, you
torture to send information.
Like?
We torture.
Who are we trying to scare with Jalal?
There are others. One reason to torture is that a tortured husk is no longer a
credible source. Close the leak, by poisoning the pipe.
I want to go over the interviews with you then, I didn't understand why they
were doing it.
I think they were burning Jalal as a potential source by torturing him.
Nothing he said could be used by them as credible.
It almost seems as if they knew it already.
That is another message you use torture to send: 'We are in your mind and
we haz your secrets.' Make people believe you are all knowing, and they may start
giving up what you don't know.
What about Subject Two?
And Subject Three, who was, you will note, not subject to enhanced

interogation.
Subject Two seemed to be confused to.
Three blind mice, with their tails cut off by a carving knife.
Why do you old spooks use children's rhymes.
Because spying, like football, and finance, are boys games. Collecting
snakes, peeping on girls, and dropping the collected snakes in the peeped upon
girl's beds.
Is that really it.
You only spy, on people you want.
They heard the props spin up.
He looked at the props and announced, It is going to get loud.
We have only about an hour before we are on the ground. Anything you
want to say, has to be here. She gave him liquid eyes, but the total lack of
involvement of her mouth made it clear that this was the empty flirting that
women master in all worlds run by men, she was almost certainly not even aware
she was doing it.
The White House is watching us. We have to get out from underneath their
eyes if we are going to find out what went on.
My orders are to close the leaks.
To what?
To the black operation at Damascus. State wants this cut off.
Is that from the Secretary, the Assistant Secretary for Intelligence, or from
Director Hampshire?
Secretary must retain deniability.
Which means it is someone's interpretation.
I think the Director is ordering the specifics.
The Director knows that torture is wrong.
But she can't do anything about it right now.
That's a convenient position to take.
She scowled.
I can see why people don't like you.
One thing you will learn: at the office, motivation is nothing, because every
one is self-motivated for advancement. In the field, motivation is everything,
because this no one goes into the life for simple personal gain. There's always a
kink.
I don't see how that addresses what I said.
I'm a field person, which means that I am alive, precisely because I see
people's motivations.
She paused and thought.
We don't do that back at the office.
Of course, there is always the patina that you are all working for a better
world.
And you don't believe that?
We are flying over millions of people, who are not part of whatever better
world the DMV is making.
DMV?
A slang term for District, Maryland, Virginia area around the capital. Langley,
Quantico, Gaithersberg, Bolling, The Hill, The White House are all in it.

Ah.
So let's get back to this case. Our motivations are important.
What is yours? Are you going to sabotage this? I mean, everyone knows you
don't approve of enhanced interrogation.
I don't approve of syllable bloat. Enhanced interrogation, extreme rendition,
expedited adjudication, instead of torture, kidnappung, murder. He waited for her
to absorb this. Really I'm a linguistic purist trying to save the letter 'E' from
getting a bad name.
She smiled, and gave a half laugh.
My motivation here is to get to the bottom of this. Anything that needs a
case to cover up a case that was a cover up, needs to be pulled.
Air Genghis? But we are supposed to protect it.
From whom? For all we know, Air Genghis was compromised, and John the
Baptist and Jack of Spades were sent in to protect the compromise, not to protect
the operation. 'The laden planes came in, and the empty planes flew out.'
Isn't that just a code phrase, a way of identifying people involved.
They kept torturing Jalal after he said it. In fact, the more he said it, the
more they tortured him. And if it were so secret, why was Subject Two let go, and
Subject Three has vanished from Damascus.
So maybe that meant they knew he was holding out, and the others were
not dangerous.
He inserted the thumb drive into his computer.
Subject Two was tortured, his very existence compromises a black facility in
a country we are supposed to be on bad terms with.
How did you get permission to use a Macintosh?
It's more secure.
I know, but how did you get permission.
I cloned my laptop on to a virtual machine. As far as Quantico is concerned,
this is my issued computer. It is a version of jailbreaking. Don't worry about
permissions, worry about capabilities.
He pulled up the videos.
Show me what you are thinking of.
I need time to find it.
He checked the clock.
We have 33 minutes until landing. Maybe one or two circles, be quick.
She focused on the screen, and began to sweat. Finally she turned the
computer around with a slightly triumphant look on her face.
Here is one example.
Their shoulders came close to touching as they peered at the small video
screen. The questions ran back and forth four times. A haggard Jalal would say, in
English, The Laden Planes came in, and the empty planes flew out. And each
time a voice from off screen, which belonged to the Jack of Spades, would repeat
Where did you see this? Jalal would wimper and say There is no strength
except through Allah. Then something wet would happen, a large syringe would
be produced, and it would shoot water up his nose, then he grew blurry as the
board he was on was tilted backwards, and he would begin coughing and hacking,
the water reaching down his nose and bronchial passages. It would then snap up,
and repeat.

There, I think that it was the first call sign, and then when he didn't know the
second call sign, they'd repeat it, to find out where he heard it from, and
therefore, where the leak was.
The Apostle tightened on eye.
Show me the others.
The spent the next 20 minutes looking at four other incidents, all similar,
though one time Jack had lost patience with the water torture, and instead had
returned to his basic leather sap, smacked across the face.
Ok, well that or perhaps there was a second call that Jalal didn't know.
At this point something caught his attention outside of the plane, through the
port side window. He looked outwards, and there, across the broad darkness, an
unseen moon illuminating the wing, was another light, it was green, and as dim as
international regulations would allow. A starboard light.
Pull down the shades. We are being tracked.
He went forward and knocked on the flight deck. There was no response.
We are meant to be tracked. I wonder how much whoever over heard with
elint. I need to be more careful.
4

Destiny Ghani
So that is Jalal.
The Apostle stared inside the small, closed, white medical room, complete
with monitors. The man lying in the bed, with IV's in his arm, looked like a pale
shadow of even the man who was being tortured and interogated in the videos.
Ms. Bright charmed in, He seems to be in terrible shape.
He won't even drink water. This was the assistant intelligence officer of the
Damascus Embassy, a tall woman with blonde hair tied back in a severe sharp
bun. She was very pale, and dressed to a degree of sophistication that made that
roughing it was walking someplace where she might lose a heel.
He's been conditioned. Water means pain.
Are you an expert on this? There was a raised eyebrow.
You can check my dossier. He let that crawl out of his lips with an edge.
That was enough to blunt her skepticism.
I am going to need a canteen of water, I am going to need cigarette papers,
pure turkish tobacco, and paper, I also need light anywhere matches. No
substitution. Get the canteen from the local market.
I didn't know I worked for you.
No you work for Joseph, at least as long as he's here.
The case officer is standing next to you, you too can engage in the
customary bureaucratic bitch slapping. Then, get me the tobacco, paper and
matches, and the canteen with water.
The station intelligence officer looked at Bright, who gave a kind of steely
glance back. And then realized that it wasn't worth fighting over it now, when a
nastygram in the report would be more effective.
Ok Bright, we need to wire me up, I need your tongue here.

Half an hour later, he was in the room, and Jalal was waking up, without the
IV. Apostle sat, staring at him, a canteen in one hand. He set the canteen down
next to the bed, and then took out the tobacco and began to roll it. He licked it
closed, and then lit it.
Jalal looked at the canteen, looked at the cigarette, its soft aroma beginning
to fill the air. He reached out his hand for the cigarette. Apostle handed it to him.
Jalal drew hard drags in, several of them. Finally, he reached for the canteen, and
drank.
Peace be upon you, and Allah's blessings. The accent in the Arabic was as
bad as it had been back in Baghdad. Good thing I am wearing a wire. Bright's
translation came through his ear bud, as did her suggested reply with a clean
pronunciation which was very classical.
But he didn't need it:
Peace be upon you and Allahs mercy and blessings.
Where are the others. They must be here.
Drink, smoke, wait. I am not in a hurry. You won't see the others again.
Bismillah.I know. He took a long drag, then he offered the cigarette back, a
clear insistence they both smoke, just to be sure.
I hate this part.
He pulled a drag in, it hit his lungs with a heavy thump, almost making him
cough up. But he held it down, and nonchalantly passed it back.
The did this through the cigarette.
You know, I knew you would come. The angel after the devils.
You had faith in Allah.
I think we meet before.
Your mind is clear.
I remember your face, and your voice. We talked in Baghdad. You wouldn't
buy from me then. Perhaps you will buy from me now.
What am I buying?
Plane tickets.
Discount plane tickets?
No. The best.
Apostled stared at him.
I will have to think about it.
You don't want?
I might. I'll leave these with you, and when I come back we will talk about all
of this.
When will this be?
At lunch. You'll be hungry.
I am not sure I can eat. My stomache is in knots.
From Baghdad, I remember you smoked hashish. Is this still true?
Yes. Not so much any more.
I will bring some. We can eat then. Inshallah.
You will be back, and not someone else.
It will be me.
Peace be upon you.
Peace be upon you.

The Apostle stood up, and walked out. He turned to the intelligence officer.
Get an ashtray for the man. He's coming back from the dead.
I don't see what the point of that exchange was.
Have you gotten anything out of him at all?
He's said nothing except 'A-ozu billahi mena shaitaan Arrajeem' and 'La
hawla wala quwata illa billah.' at random times.
But not any devotional prayers.
No.
Leave it to the higher ups to have a station chief that doesn't speak Arabic,
or understand the culture.
Bright looked at him.
He's asking for Allah's protection, and he thinks he is in a bad place.
The station chief looked down on Bright. I was told that much.
No, it is more than that. I just do not know what yet.
Not long afterwards, they were sitting in the office they had been allocated.
They spoke in Arabic, if for no other reason, that it would annoy the station chief.
So what is it your are doing?
I am going to find out what was supposed to be erased.
You still believe that?
I am sure of it.
Why is that?
Look how easy it is to have him speak. A canteen of water and some tobacco
is hardly 7 virgins.
Perhaps it is a relief.
I will tell you what it is. Jalal has always been easy. Soft and easy. A lost kid
looking for a mother goat. He was never hard to break. They were not finding
information, they were plugging a leak.
So you say, but what does the video mean?
It is an endless loop of inflicting pain on him, and by repeating the two
phrases, he tells them both that they cannot burn the information out of him.
There came a knock on the door. Bright buzzed it open.
Some one is here to see you. Looking at Apostle.
I assume a Mr. Dow of the UN.
How did you know?
I emailed him on the way here. He's an old friend of the community.
And someone who can actually be trusted with your life.
It took some juggling, because a meeting could neither be in the intelligence
section, nor in the general public diplomatic areas. However, eventually space
was found. He left Bright alone, and went to talk to Dow.
Petrus, how good to see you. He smiled and shook hands. Dow was more
noncommittal. He's always liked Dow, more than Dow liked him. Dow was easy to
like in an off sort of way. He was the kind of hard in his features, with tight curly
hair and well trimmed beard, that spoke of someone who could be trusted,
precisely because he had no hidden agenda. His loyalty was on his face. Dow was
the kind of tightened tall and thin that came from having been in the infantry, and
never losing the taste for an acesticism in life. He was married now, with children,

and yet, there were only trace of softness, and a few of age. He had never, in his
habits, left Beruit. This added to his trustworthiness, because you knew that while
he had not taken a vow of poverty, there was no small luxury that would tempt
him to stray.
I'm glad to hear from you.
You got my message?
Of course. And I have good and bad news for you.
Go on.
Unfortunately, I know where the man whose picture you sent me is. That
was Subject Two.
Yes.
I will take you there.
Apostle could feel his face produce a frown, and then went on.
Can I take my interpreter? My Arabic is about as good as your cooking.
I would prefer not, but I think it will work out.
She's not going to make trouble.
Others could make trouble for her.
Chances we take. How should we dress.
It's out doors, don't stand out.
Give us 10 minutes.
Take longer, but not by much.
The took one of the Company Cars that was beaten up and made for being
less conspicuous. Of course, there are only degrees of security, but black
murdered-out Cadillacs, are rather visible. They wound south, past the Bader
Mosque, with green trees framing its whiteness, and then farther to the poorer
environs out of the old town, studded with monuments and government buildings.
Then the driver did a fast cut, and began weaving fast through the narrow streets
back around on himself, to the old Roman Straight Street. Every foot the looked
behind for people following, or in front worrying that some one would end up
doing a break dance across the hood.
Then they broke open on to Via Recta, and made for the eastern gate, the old
Roman gate of the Sun. The speed of the driver was fast enough to strongly
encourage the crowd to part. He was banging on the horn, and in general acting
the part of a local cab driver in a hurry. So much for being hard to notice. They
approached a gray stone building, streaked white with stains, at its center a 30
foot tall round arch, betraying ist origins as Roman. It had no roof, though it
extended back into the dark. Bodies were packed around it, and no one was
moving.
At the center of this was a bus, that towered over the people around it. On
top of the bus were two figures, one clad in black and had a full covering to his
face, the other in ordinary street clothes, but wearing a turban only. They stopped,
perhaps 40 years away and watched.
The man in black threw a rope high up and over the stone arch, in itself not
an insignificant feat of strength. He moved behind the standing man, whose
hands were clearly bound, and began to tie a hangman's noose.
Apostle rolled out of the door and began pushing through the crowd, vaguely
aware that Dow and Bright were behind him. It did not take long for him to reach

the edge of the circle of people, and press his way nearly to the front. He stopped,
took a deep breath, and looked squarely at the face of the man on the bus in
white. It was, indeed, Subject Two. Clearly he'd been released, and almost
immediately picked up. Well, the leak was closed.
The man in black picked up a bull horn, and began reading out that the
something or other people of Damascus were to be gifted with this hanging. There
were a few key points that Apostle's eye caught, even though he did not quite
process them at the time. One was obvious, the new and polished military boots
of the black clad man. The other was the heavy tires on the Bus, and its generally
worn condition, not from, however, long days of slow crawl, but because of hard
use. The third and final point, was the weaponry inside the bus.
La hawla wala quwata illa billah!
There is no transformation, nor power, except through Allah. It wasn't a pass
phrase, it was what they were drilling into his head, a threat if he talked.
Then the bus drove backwards, and at the last moment the man in street
clothes was pushed forward. Rather than the clean drop from the scaffold, where
the neck had a chance to snap, with a short end, he swung off, back and forth,
back and forth, back and forth. People scrambled grabbing anything that might
have fallen out of his pockets. The bus stopped, and the black clad man watched
as the still living victim continued to swing.
At this point, Bright and Dow caught up to him. Bright nearly leaned against
him, clearly doubled over in a visceral reaction. Neither he nor Dow made a
gesture to stop the scene, but watched closely.
I'm here on the human rights desk, I recognized the picture from the poster
they put up yesterday. I'm sorry I wasn't faster.
That's alright, I doubt our Syrian friends would be cooperative about holding
up this train.
Not to my experience.
We need to get out of here.
They made their way back to the car, fending off pick pockets, who, knowing
they were western, were making a chance at padding the score.
It took some fending people off at the car, but soon they were back at the
Embassy, though again by a less than direct route.
He embraced Dow as he left the car, the dark haired, stern faced man clearly
taken aback.
Wait for me at Umayyad Mosque, it won't be long.
Dow gave one of his penetrating examinations, which, to the outside
observer, seemed like merely a blank look. Only careful observation would tell
that his eyes flicked over cardinal points of his subjects face, in this case, one
Apostle.
Dow, did you notice the turf at the mosque?
What did you see?
It was broken up, by treads.
It could be tractors.
Not those treads my friend. Those are t-72 treads. The Syrians have been
moving heavy armor out of Damascus. Find where, and you will know where your
next massacre is.
There are going to be several, everyone knows a crack down is coming in a

few days.
Before Ramadan?
Before, during, after.
Our briefings aren't particularly helpful about where.
Nor ours.
Do you have any idea how bad it will be?
We are expecting thousands of dead.
That is steep even by Syrian standards.
It will get worse.
It will get worse before it gets worse.
No dictator is going to go the way of Mubarak. That was a blunder.
Not mine. America is very good at teaching all the wrong lessons. We try
Mubarak because he gave in, we attack Qaddafi because he tried to rehabilitate
himself, while the unapologetic dicators have a free hand an an open road.
It started with Saddam.
Yes, I wrote that memo.
That was your work?
Of course, 'We are not invading Iraq because it is a threat, but because it is
not. We are not attacking Saddam because he has WMD, but because he does
not. Iran will learn and profit from both of these lessons.
Why did you write it.
You only write Epistles to sinners, Dow.
Then you must write a great deal.
Forgotten volumes in the Decline and Fall of the American Empire.
Once back in the station, he wove his way through employees trying to avoid
working. He noted, as he had not before, that no one was actually doing anything
as they ran around. Many services had been suspended, but the smell of fear was
starting to become pungent. They are preparing to pull parts of the operation out.
Doesn't bode well for Jalal, he's a lead weight, and SMA, Syria's military
intelligence, would be happy to interrogate and hang him.
He and Bright went back to the office, her hanging on his arm almost every
moment, clearly still reeling from what she had seen.
Once back in the office, he closed the door and pulled out a barf bag he'd
pilfered from the commercial plane. She used it, straightened up, and peeled
through two bottles of water. She cleaned up her face, cleared her tears, and tried
to straighten up.
Why did you choose this line of work?
Student loans, public service, I didn't expect to see people hung.
He's still hanging, and might be for hours.
That's disgusting.
We gave him up.
That's why I am sick. We weren't supposed to do things like that.
Apostle picked up the desk phone and dialed. He reached the switchboard.
I need to speak to Joseph.
Which Joe...
He cut the desk off.
You know full well which one. His ears only.

There was a long wait.

Unfortunately he's very busy.
Tell him that in five minutes I walk out of here, he can talk to me first or
not.
After hanging up, he looked at Bright.
Grab your gear and get ready to go.
Will they let us out? I mean, you usually don't.
Joseph will call Washington. Foggy Bottom will tell him to talk to us. We leave
after that.
What do you need to talk to him about? I am not getting this. What did we
find out?
Where John the Baptist is.
Where John the Baptist is? You are talking as if he were still alive.
He is very much alive, and if so, I presume he is compromised.
Do you know where he is?
Almost. The honorable acting intelligence chief here does know, even if he
doesnt't know it.
But is he going to tell you?
He's going to tell me something far more valuable.
What is that?
Whether he told the Baptist.
In four minutes and thirty seconds they were in the intelligence office, behind
the door that separated intelligence from diplomatic activities. Joseph had short
sharp cut hair, combed back. His face had that beaten on look of a man who
cannot pass as young, but certainly isn't old any more.
You are making trouble as usual, can't this be done with less broken glass?
Where do you send people to dispose of, when your Syrian friends won't
do?
There is no way you have need to know.
Where do you send people to dispose of, when your Syrian friends won't
do?
Maybe if you cut the bull in the china shop routine, we could get this loose
for you.
Where do you send people to dispose of, when your Syrian friends won't
do?
You are getting tiresome. I'm going to ask you to leave my office, and if you
make any threats, it will be straight to holding.
Won't be there for long, it is clear that this intelligence branch is being
closed down.
The other man blanched slightly.
Good guess.
I need to know where I am going next. Where are people disposed of who
you can't entrust to the Syrians?
It's another black facility, highly classified.
Then I am going to take another good guess.
You are welcome to, but I am going to have you out of my station as soon as
I can get authorization.

Bright and I are walking out right now.

Not to any company transport, I can assure you.
I'll hitch my own ride.
You are rumored to be good, but I don't see it.
Escaping detection is a spook's job. I'm out of here, you can put the usual
letter of protest in my file.
Cocky aren't you?
No, Baptist was cocky, and he fucked it up. Keep Jalal alive, I will be back for
him.
Ten minutes later, he and Bright walked out, and they had lost the tail with
minutes.
III
The Second Epistle to the Corinthians
1


On Knowledge Rehman Baba
Hello Gabriel.
Breathing was still hard, like he had socks shoved in his lung. His leg still quivered a bit, but he
could feel the welcome agony of healing bone. Another day of survival, was all he asked for every
morning, and it seemed like less and less of a miracle by nighfall. Gabriel had arrived, and was now
face to face with him. He glanced out through the small glass door and saw the end of the barrel of a
guard's rifle. Nice to know I'm appreciated.
You've been a bad boy again.
Sure, you should only hire nice people to knock over governments and assassinate rogue
agents.
Damascus chief was unhappy with your last conversation.
He withheld need to know information.
He could have been instructed.
The Director would have backed him.
How do you know that.
A little bird in the diplomatic pouch told me.
How do you know that.
I lifted that last pouch.
That could get you into a great deal more trouble.
It's going to get the Assistant Intelligence in even more.
You are going to need to spin this out for me.
Let's go back to when I left Damascus for Kabul by way of Baghdad and Basra.
Why the long route?
I had to visit Jalal's old haunts.
That would be Baghdad.
Yes. That would be Baghdad.

Apostle, are you crazy? She was screaming at him as he slammed the levers into place on the
aged Seminole twin piston prop aircraft. It was supposed to be primarily a trainer, but of course, over
time, they had rotated into being used for any role that their airframe could hold. One engine was out.
Aren't you listening to me? First you burn our bridge to Damascus, and now you have us on a
plane to nowhere.
If this engine cuts out, we aren't a plane any more. Would you let me work?
Are you crazy Apostle.
No, but I am angry. His voice was an even growl.
Meanwhile he scanned the controls, and could see the power drop that came from an engine
being out. He strained his ears to try and feel the loss of vibration. He checked the fuel pressure guages,
neither told the tail. Finally, he felt a pull to the right and the plane began to yaw to the left. He
stomped the rudder right, and pulled back the throttle. Dead foot for the dead engine. Sadly, the critical
engine on this piece of tin.
He looked at the airspeed indicator, and it had bad news. On the air speed dial was a fine red line
that told him he was below the speed the rudder would use to control the yaw. Pointing the nose down
to get airspeed at a mere 100 feet was inadvisable. But pulling more power from the good engine was
also bad. No choice, he cut the engine, and pulled the nose back to get some life and then started down
again, banking into the good engine with a soft touch to three degrees. The bottom felt like it dropped
out of the floor while the whole plane felt like it was going to roll over. Bright gasped, the closest a
civilian would usually come was the drop on a particularly vicious, so he didn't even raise an eyebrow.
Sadly, while they were starting to get some left, the control was horrible, and the plane still
wanted to spin on its center access, like a skater that has chipped a turn.
Just then, the left pedal went live again, and instead of spinning down to a feathered stop, the left
engine sputtered to live, he pushed the nose down, and at 15 feet he felt the air come up under the
wings, pulled the stick back, and gave the flaps, banked back left and leveled out. It was all motion
with the stick, he didn't follow the moves with is body.
Back softly and he had control again. From the outside it would look like the plane had done a
turn left, a dip to the right, a short drop, and then began to climb. This about described how his gut felt.
It's a plane again.
As opposed to?
A spinning quarter packed with gasoline.
He gave it gas and pulled it up.
You crazy Apostle. She was shouting again.
Let's go back, fail the left engine, and see if you can do it.
How did you learn to do it?
78 runs on the simulator.
And then you could do it?
I just did.
Soon they were up at 1000 feet, and slavishly sucking down the pathetic fuel reserve of this old
plane. Fortunately, they did not have far to go.
Bright was breathing easily.
I want you to do something. Open up my carry on, dig around until you find a ceramic case with
my cufflinks in it. Take out the ones with the clear crystal.
What is in those?
The have a camera and a microphone. I took pictures of the files and recorded the interviews.
How do I load them?
Pull the end off, what is left is a pin. Search for the adaptor, and we are good.
Bright went back, and after some back and forth questions, he heard the drone of Boo's voice that
told him she had managed the trick.

Not exactly spacious.

I only had the brick of cash that I pillaged from the diplomatic pouch.
Pillaged? Her voice went up half an octave.
When I was in Joseph's office, I picked up the bag. He was so busy being peeved he didn't
notice.
So that's why you made him angry?
Check the bag, we need to know who in the Damascus locale was attached to this operation and
how.
The pouch was, indeed, a treasure trove. Bright opened the information that was meant for him,
which had been delivered by jet from Ram, there were a series of folders and lesser communications,
and several separately locked communications.
Opening these is going to tell us a great deal. If we can do it.
Baghdad will have some hackers we can rent.
I have a different question.
Ask.
Why did Dow help you?
He likes to say if you want to find human rights abuses, follow the spooks.
What does that mean?
I feed him information on atrocities that would otherwise remain buried. He is in a position to do
something about them.
That sounds perilously close to idealism.
Dow is one of the few people who is, in fact, a good guy. Mostly.
And you?
I'm in the Evil Business.
Ok so I have something.
They were crossing Al-Anbar, effectively its own country now, with still a while to go before they
were anywhere that could be classified as even being nowhere.
I'm listening.
Air Genghis was supposed to land in Kandahar, with weapons destined for the Company in
Afghanistan.
Ya, Und, Zo.
Then the planes were routed to Gaza.
Gaza?
Yes. Gaza.
I'm looking at Wheel's numbers. They were supposed to then fly back to some air fields in
Turkey, be loaded with supplies, and then fly again.
The logic of Gaza escapes me.
According to Wheel, however, the planes arrived in Turkey, consistently, with less fuel than they
should have had. She does out the manifests and estimates that either they were carrying more than on
the manifests, or they were flying someplace else.
Is there any evidence that they every landed in Gaza?
No.
So they flew to Kandahar, routing around Iran I assume.
Wheel does out three sets, says that they probably routed north aorund, not south around.
Strange.
Strange.
Then they leave Kandahar empty, but arrive much lower on fuel at the final point.
The Gaza is a dodge, a way point that no one can trace how much fuel, or what happened.

There's a loose end.

So someone is using Air Genghis in a way that is not meant for our consumption.
Yes, but is it authorized unauthorized? Or unauthorized unauthorized.
Big black bags, have smaller black bags.
We are going to have to put this information on a slow boat back home. Create a folder and lable
it Calgary-Yukon Air.
What?
Cover Your Ass.
The level of detail of Wheel's analysis is insane.
No, Wheel is sane, the rest of us live in a mushy inconsistent universe that makes no sense whatso-ever when examined with a logical eye.
She's inhuman.
She's a mental grindstone that crushes ore into powder that is ready to be annealed.
How did she do this?
She has a three step method.
Which is?
She reads everything, she remembers everything, she writes down where all the holes are.
That's so amazingly helpful.
One kind of genius, is the ability to focus on a subject, until it is done with you, rather than you
are done with it. Most people are satisfied with proof by exhaustion, namely when they are exhausted,
they are done.
Are you always this negative?
What crude is to oil, rude is to foil. And we have to be very foily in our chosen profession.
The world basically works, we are just here to adjust it.
The world is bleeding from every pore, and we are here to sweep the tide of blood back from the
shores, of America. We are here to turn Pakistani people, into pink paste.
How can you keep doing this, if you clearly don't believe in the mission?
He spent only a moment to look at her.
Because it is the only work, which I am fit for.
I'm not sure you belong in the community, Apostle.
He tightened his lips, and exhaled slowly.
When you are done with this case, you can go back to finding weddings to bomb.
What is wrong with you.
Day 4, Hour 6, Minutes 37 through 41.
Which ones are those?
They stick a cath into his penis and turn on the water.
There was silence, and then a single interjection.
Ick.
Medically preventative measure, Ms. Bright. Medically preventative measure.
What about ends justifying the means?
He began the descent, not into a major airport, but into a dusty outpost in Al-Anbar, where
smugglers once picked up payment for illicit oil shipments, often packing people for petroleum. Brides
destined for the Gulf, dowries stripped from the teeth of the dead, semtex for suicide bombs, all the
clutter of the blackest of black markets. Lights were few but bright, burning kerosene lanterns. He'd last
been here when the State Department was dumping bribes to end the fighting in Iraq at the end of
Bush's term. Flight. Lose. Flight.
The landing was into a bit of crosswind, but was otherwise uneventful.
So what are we doing here?

We need to pick up fuel and money, as well as toys.

Toys.
I hope you are up on your pistol practice.
I've never shot anyone.
Think of it as turning your own wrench for a change.
Why does every conversation with you turn back to ideology?
Because you need to take the blinders off. Here is what we have: there was a company
operation: Air Genghis. It was a not very secret means of supplying the Company in Afghanistan.
Since, it should be noted, the old DCI is the new SecDef, and the former commander of Afghanistan is
now DCI, you can guess that what is really happening is that Afghanistan is about to become a
company town.
So why Jalal, why the rest?
Look at Wheels numbers: there is a missing leg of the triangle, and Jalal was tortured, not
because the operation was not doing what it was nominally supposed to do, but because it was. 'Laden
planes were flying in, empty planes were flying out.'
I still don't understand why this is a problem.
Peel back the onion. Resupply of the Company doesn't require any secrecy, they fly in, Air
America style, and that is it.
So it was created as a cover for another operation, and that was the operation that the Baptist and
Jack were aware of. They were closing the leaks of the next layer.
Perhaps, but that is the layer that is really on the company books. The planes were supposed to
land in Afghanistan, turn around, and fly someplace else, with at least some of their supplies or cargo,
or with different cargo.
That must be the operation Boo was overseeing.
Correct, because he wanted me to investigate the blowing of that cover.
And so there is a third layer?
Yes, Baptist, Spade, and someone in the Embassy, knew that the black bag inside the black bag,
had one more black bag in it.
One that Baptist could be compromised for, and Spade bought out for?
Correct.
So the open secret of Air Genghis is, that it wasn't a secret.
Correct.
And beneath that is the secret, that it was.
Yes.
So how do Baptist, Jack, Jalal, and the other two 'subjects' fit in with this?
We need to draw out a table. What needs to be done? Well someone needs to be the Arab end of
the secret operation that isn't secret, that's Jalal. He found out that it was secret. They tortured him to
close off the leak.
How are you sure of that?
Because he also found out where the next step was.
How do you know?
Nothing focuses the mind like a hanging.
She nodded. There is no change or strength except through Allah.
That's right, so he knew that it had to do with where the US was disposing of people.
And that is what set the Baptist off.
Why?
I have a guess.
What is that?
A long long time ago, I pulled the Baptist out of a Kabul prison. He was there because he had

gotten involved with a local woman. Things happen.

And they had a child?
Yes.
And the child was the leverage on the Baptist? For what?
He smiled at her.
Such terrible thoughts, that people would threaten a child. Leverage to bring him over to another
side. Once Jalal offered that up, there was no mercy.
She smiled back.
And what Jalal was telling them, was that the key to the child, was at the black site.
Only neither Joseph, nor anyone else, would tell them that. What Jalal was saying was that he'd
already given up the girl, before he was taken. That's the ticking clock that set the Baptist to light into
Jalal. That is what Jalal meant when he was repeating over and over again: I know your secret, and you
don't know mine.
So Joseph was with the angels?
I goaded him, because if he told me, it would be to walk into the same trap that got the Baptist.
He's clean.
Like I said Harvey, I have to know.
What about Spade?
He came in because flies love shit. You can tell he's bored by the actual answers. Once Baptist
had gone through the trouble to get people tortured, he was hoping for information of some other kind.
You saw the tapes, they formed a mutual sadism society, egging each other on, forcing Jalal and
Subject Two into homosexual acts, or simulation of them.
So Baptist wanted to break Jalal, and Jack wanted to break Two?
Once Jack was gone, note how Subject Two became disposable. So I don't know yet what Spade
was on, but it involved money and a flight to the Persian Gulf.
And all this was hidden in plain sight, because no one would watch the tapes.
Torture doesn't reveal information, it obscures it. No one would stomach it, except Wheel, who
told Dig about them, and sent the drive to you.
Why are you sure it was Wheel?
Who else would give you that drive?
It was Wheel who gave it to me, yes.
But we still have missing pieces.
Yes, we do. Subject Two, Jack, Subject Three, and why the White House has suddenly become
very interested in all of this.
I thought it just might be damage control, they think it is a situation.
Boo isn't good at d/c.
No, I suppose not. He's too ideological.
Every house needs a dog.
Maybe they smell opportunity?
Maybe.
But aren't we, ultimately, working for the President?
Let me introduce you to the theory of the goonitary executive. Namely the President is the bull,
and the government is the china shop.
I don't get it.
Just because the President wants to stick his finger in the wall socket, doesn't mean we have to
give him the juice. Sometimes President's need to be delayed until the realize they don't want to do
what they want to do.
I don't like where that goes.
It is only in Washington that Loyalty is a one way street. We owe the President not merely our

industry, but our good judgment.

I thought all streets were one way in Washington. And that when the President says jump, we
were suppsed to ask how high on the way up.
Toto, we aren't in the beltway any more. Out here, he's going to need to protect people, because
otherwise, he won't have any low friends in low places left.
So you used Jalal's contacts to get us this far. Are you going to help him?
Every minute he breathes is a favor.
That's no?
Let's just say that there is no ongoing relationship implied here.
So why are we here?
Jalal knows where Baptist's daughter is. There has to be a key to the treasure.
And you want to find his associates and bargain for it?
Yes. Though, sadly, it might knock the last props out under his welcome.
Do you have a plan?
Yes, you are going to need to get whored up though.
I'm not that pretty.
That's fine, they aren't that picky.
I am not going to be the sacred prostitute for anyone.
This isn't a honey trap.
Glad we have that clear.
Completely. You can only sell candy once.
Every time I think you hit bottom, you dig deeper.
In Iliad, Hera does Zeus so that he will fall asleep and let her side win. I didn't invent sex as a
tool of statecraft or weapon of war.
I'm actually surprised that you haven't even leered at me. Am I that plain?
Only eat, what you can kill, Ms. Bright. Only eat what you can kill. I don't ever engage in extracurricular activities in the field, precisely because stupid things happen.
Like to the Baptist.
Exactly.
Would you do it as part of an operation?
That's strictly need to know Ms. Bright.
Strap in, we are going to land here and engage in some good old-fashioned camel trading.
They were far from Baghdad, out in the wastelands between Baghdad and Jordan, and he began
calmly setting the plane down on what seemed to be merely a stretch of road. She watched.
Do you know what you are doing?
I'm landing the plane Ms. Bright. I'm landing the plane.
The vibrations slowed, and the plane skipped and bounced along the rough packed sand. He was
not the most polished pilot, by any stretch of the imagination.
2

Satan Laughed Abdolbari Jahani
So the two of you were on the same page before Baghdad.
We had narrowed the focus to finding out what Jalal knew. That had to be

obvious.
I must say I am disappointed in Ms. Bright, she was supposed to be more
politically reliable.
You pooched that relationship, Gabe, and you know what I mean.
She was Michael's choice.
If you say so Gabe.
Why don't you go into more detail about what happened in Baghdad.
Curious about how far things went?
I need to know if Ms. Bright is salvageable.
Not time for d/c Gabe.
That is not your call.
There are still fish in the water.
Let's get back to Baghdad.
You'll want to know about the party then.
I suppose.
Basically I watched Ms. Bright work. It was her show.
If lights could deafen, and sounds could blind, that was here, now. The walls
shivered and cambered to the massively heavy beat that ate up seconds in exact
slabs. The darkness at the swirling mass of figures, who writhed and plunged
against each other. The very floor seemed to ripple under her feet.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Even without the bombardment of base, and the rush of rhythm, her heart
would be wrapped in tremors. This was not her place. She'd never clubbed back at
home, and she'd never work what amounted to a man's shirt, itself of a thin white
linen, and covering over only white stockings and the barest of undergarments.
And this was almost modest: she saw women with round hips and full legs whose
crotches were essentially exposed, flashing what seemed an endless depth at the
core at the intersection of torso and thighs. She almost winced as she saw
cleavage propped up to the point where it seemed almost inflated, or with
underboob exposed and allowed to float and hang like an exclamation point.
She felt her flesh shifting almost unstrung, floating without restraint. Eyes
peeled across her surface, and she could feel them claw, seeking to rip away
whatever modesty. She had never felt more naked in front of anyone, not even
men she had exposed her body to before having sex. Indeed, every step reeked of
male musk, as if she were tossing herself to be impaled on their prongs. A bed of
nails would have been more comfortable, an ocean of thugs wielding baseball
bats less of a threat. It would be easier if she knew what her target looked like,
but, instead, she was searching, forced, not only to flaunt the flounce of her flesh,
but to look into probing eyes, holding for a daring half second, and then turning
away.
She was waiting for the pass-phrase that had been agreed to when Apostle
had set up this meeting. You look so much like that singer and then she would
reply I'm no good. No, you are back in black. The sound of the wheels in her
mind were close to driving her crazy, has hands slid across and squeezed, hips
brushed along hers, men, women, something. Each one made her lose a
wrenching moment in her gut, she had to force herself not to reach for the hidden
firearm that was strapped inside her left arm. It was small, ceramic, and tightly

pressed in. Apostle had walked through security with it, knowing that she would
be groped in every crease by the bodyguards, and that they would leave his
private parts strictly alone. The passing of it had been her first heart stopping
moment, nearly losing control of it, but Apostle had pulled her in and covered her.
His grip was strong, but utterly devoid of pressure. Strictly business.
Once hitched up it had stayed easily in place, and she had grown used to its
clutch, a baby monkey holding tight to its mother.
There was a break in the almost endless series of house remixes for some old
rock number. It grizzled and growled, but it helped her visualize her self, as being
a sexual lure. She began walking, crossing her legs behind her, and bending over
tables to smile at random men. Her flesh swing and pushed. And at the same
time, this made her cold. It was just a dance, an act, her body was divorced from
her mind, like the driving classes, or the weapons training. The shocks of the
drums, when they returned were no different from the shocks of the recoil of a
heavy pistol at the range. And that meant they could follow one right after
another in almost endless succession.
Then she bent over and smiled, fluttered the grotesquely large eyelashes,
and a heavy man with a three day beard but heavy mustache looked up at her,
and said You look so much like that singer. The exchange rolled, and she gave
her hand to him. He waddled and pranced out to the floor and pressed her to his
soft belly. She could feel his penis as the hardest thing on him, aggressively
branding itself on to her belly. She felt like she'd eaten something rotten.
His breath stank of coffee and some kind of alcohol, fragrant with heavy
cigars. His body oozed of someone who had already rented a woman that night,
and was recuperated for another. He shuffled his mouth into her ear and rasped
out.
You are a delicious candy.
Her heart was pounding hard, and she fought off paralysis. She thought of it
like squeezing a trigger, over and over.
I'm here to make the exchange.
He spun her around, grabbed her breasts and mashed them with his fingers.
Rolling his palms up and down. She actually relaxed, if his hands were mashing
her breasts, then they would not find the firearm. He then bent his mouth to her
ear again. It was hard to pick up every syllable over the din, but she strained, his
Arabic was heavily accented, and not from anything Iraqi. She strained,
comparing it. Egyptian wasn't right.
I know we agreed merchandise, but we could come to other terms. In fact, I
insist.
She slid around allowing him to envelop her front, which allowed her to reply
back.
We can't haggle out here.
This was a move she dreaded. She'd much rather have set up the exchange
here in public, because no matter how repellant his pawing was, it was safer, by
far than anyplace private. Her mouth went dry, she sucked to loosen her tongue.
He slobbered a kiss on her ear.
I have room.
She pulled back, fluttered her costume eyelashes and then pulled in close.
My partner would have to be anyplace that private.

On the next spin and grope, he ran his hands up between her legs, which she
covered with a hand before he could squeeze her sex. His rod was wedged in
between the cups of her hips, and he waggled It back and forth, though his own
bulk prevented him from getting leverage.
I'm hard.
She got a chance to pull out and then close.
Business first.
He leered and got another grope of her breasts before hissing in her ear.
I'd like a sweet first. And I think you need me more than I need you.
He thought he had her.
Jalal's family would be honor bound to take revenge if he met an early
death.
The man's hand broke into a cold sweat, and she could feel the blood drain
out of his dick. Clearly, there was something of a magic to that phrase.
Exchange first, but maybe sweet second. I'd be hard all day.
There was still a shimmering shudder of fear in her heart, but not very much.
They pretended to trot over to his side table, which was shielded from the main
floor by a half baffle, but not completley out of view. She sat with her back to the
floor, and watched as the splotches of colored light played across his face. His
body guards felt her up, but she had already palmed the pistol, and gave them
free access to a roaming feel. She sat down hands folded, and with the pistol
safely hidden. It was hard to focus, and black blurry blobs sloshed across her
vision. It was hard to focus. The table was narrow, which was necessary, because
speech travelled, at best, a short leap from lips to ears.
You have Jalal.
We have Jalal.
He is alright?
No, he is very ill.
But not dead?
No.
You have a proof?
She slid a phone across the table to him.
I can use this phone to reach him.
He looked down at it.
I want to call.
You get one call.
Do it. His eyes stared at her breasts, which, she could feel had hardened
nipples from the cold and fear. He probably ascribed it to something else, of
course.
She dialed Apostle's phone, which was sitting in Jalal's room. He explained
that data killed with kindness. One handler knew he was supposed to be in
Damascus, and the phone, which he had retrieved from the drop in Cairo, was
where he was supposed to be, within the tolerance of the phone. Another handler
knew he'd been kicked out of Damascus. But they didn't have a direct connection,
until Boo sat down and reconciled the pieces. Apostle had, of course, easily
slipped the phone with the tobacco and canteen. A third would be tracking the
calls, but what was suspicious about a call from case to agent, or even a call from
case to agent with someone else talking?

There was a rapid back and forth in Arabic. She cut the phone.
That's proof.
I want to...
International roaming rates apply, and it is pay as you go. She let her face
get cold, and suddenly he frowned. It was the look she knew, of a man who
realizes he's been played, for drinks, dinner, or a ride home.
He dashed down some writing in Arabic. He pinched it up and held it in front
of her face.
I want the phone for this.
The hardware isn't for sale.
He looked at the phone. He finally realized he had to bid.
1 hour with Jalal.
He's not in a place where he is free to talk. Aside, you want Jalal.
He licked his lips. She realized that he didn't exactly want Jalal back.
What is your offer?
2 minutes with this phone, now, and a channel to someone you can bargain
for Jalal with.
I thought you could give me Jalal.
No, we said you could get Jalal.
I don't like this.
We can get what you have another way.
You think so?
Jalal has many friends.
None so good as me.
True, we came to you first. But others might sell Jalal for much less.
They would sell his mother for nothing in the bargain.
So make the trade.
5 minutes now, 3 minutes tomorrow, and the channel.
5 now, and the channel when we have checked the information.
How do I know you will give the channel if the information is good.
We will need to move the package at this address. Who better?
Her fat contact nodded.
I want a sweet to seal the deal.
At this point the guards parted, and the flood of light came from the floor. The
figure that filled the space was broad and did not bother to conceal the outline of
a piece.
The lady has another engagement.
A call to action died in the fat man's throat, he recognized the face.
She pulled the paper from his fingers and dialed on the phone, thumb poised
over the connect.
Ready for your five?
The fat man nodded.
That was very close to the line, Apostle.
But not anywhere close to over it.
You are obsessed with this case.
No. His voice was sharp, and broke the normally sweet sing song of his

back and forth with Gabriel.

No? John is almost your twin, recruited at the same time, from the same
background. Gone in and out of native, always playing Cowboy, but never a
Cowboy. Ultracompetent, when he wasn't drunk.
He hasn't touched any in years.
He was more reliable when he did. Tell me, did he convert to Islam?
Not until the end?
The bitter end?
You are going to tell me about it. There was a soft inevitability to Gabriel's
voice. A gentleness of breaking the barriers, touching the hidden places of the
psyche. So many had been lulled by the back and forth rocking motion he had in
his chair, the up and down to his voice.
Not quite yet. We aren't there yet.
He was your icon. You looked up to him. Yes? Maybe even wanted to fuck
him. Maybe?
No.
Coal said there was another officer who wanted to fuck him.
That would be you, Gabriel.
It could be you. If I make it so.
Now who is playing with the line?
I'll just present facts. There are always facts.
And even more unfacts. Was it you that turned Coal over? Burned him?
No. Coal burned himself.
That was over Steve's little get together.
Let's just say that Steve can be out now that he's Out. His Foundation is very
safe.
I'll look it up myself. Because your rendition of events will almost certainly
take some poetic license.
If you get that far.
That's always you Gabe, befriending, threatening, cajoling, greasing the
chute. What happens when Michael or Hampshire don't have a use for you any
more?
More you should ask what happens when I don't have any use for them.
Hampshire's a force, but she's a cancer survivor, and aging. Michael won't be
director unless he has someone to tell him which left foot to put forward.
And you criticize my candor.
So you made the exchange. We got a line from Jalal's friend the next day.
Cousin.
Everyone's a cousin in Baghdad to everyone else.
True.
Strange, he didn't seem in any hurry to collect.
You know that Jalal never walks out of anywhere alive.
Gabe merely tilted his head left and shrugged the shoulder.
He's an embarrassment. The contact, however, seems to be ready to move
into Jalal's spot, if only we can negotiate proper retirement for Jalal.
I take it handing him over to the Syrians would too obviously require
revenge.
Jalal's death does seem to interest him.

Jalal was secret police, and so are many of his boys.

Is this relevant?
Let me put some words to that tune.
This is in the Green Zone still.
Yes, just after the exchange.
Who was next on your agenda?
A friend of Subject Two's.
Wait, when did you identify Subject Two?
Bright did, it was on the file I took pictures of.
So I can add violation of SCI restricted to your list of indiscretions?
If you like.
So who was next?
A man who goes by the name Umid Muhammadi.
I don't recognize the name.
That's because you didn't check the Treasury list we sent over.
Which list?
Terrorist facilitating financial fronts. He works for Iran.
This has an Iran end.
The other way around. Subject Two didn't have anything, and was, hence
disposable.
That might be overstating it.
I saw him disposed of, remember?
Perhaps we were just extraditing a wanted man.
You were taking out Jack's trash. He was following the money, just as the
Baptist was following the planes. Jack wanted cash.
And you take the word of a listed terrorist on this?
I still know where to find Umid, I don't know where Jack is.
They were slingshoting along the serpentine avenue that paralleled the large
loop of the river that bounded the Green Zone. It felt like they were going faster
than they were. To the outside eye, it was just a cheap full size sedan from the
1990's driving more aggressively than even a taxi cab driver. Apostle was
watching backwards.
Are you sure we are being followed.
Yes.
After the forth or fifth extremely aggressive lane change, undertake, and
pass, it became transparent that another car had the same taste in aggressive
tactics. It was a new model black Lincoln. Where as the older car had to sweat and
groan for ever inch, the Lincoln's massive engine smoothly pulled after it, hardly
noticing.
Bright began watching back persistently, and then felt a prod from Apostle
and corrected herself and looked forward, watching only out of the mirrors.
Do you think we can loose them?
We are going to take a plunge into the Red Zone, that will tell us how serious
they are.
How dangerous is it? And was that a no?
There's less mortar fire there now. And unless they don't know their way
around, there's no way that this overage slushbox Mercury is going to out pull that

turbocharged boat. Five. Four. Nope.

Why didn't we rent a fast a car?
It would have been stolen. And it would stand out more. Take a look at the
Lincoln. They might as well stick a billboard on it and have a blimp overhead. Four.
Three. Two. One.
With that he slide and slammed on the breaks. The ABS came on and
chattered, the back shimmied back and forth, complaining as he steared into the
loss of control.
Bright pushed her hand against the side. With the other she pulled the shirt
that was doubling as her dress down to prevent it riding up as she slid forward on
the seat. Apostle pretended not to look.
Is this your favorite game? I mean losing control of a vehicle to see if I will
lose my last meal.
Men have a passion, for things that go.
He stepped on the gas. The Lincoln again didn't even complain as it matched
the move, and that was the problem. The Lincoln stopped smoothly and prepared
to shoot the gap behind them. It's superior braking, handling, and torque were on
miraculous display. The same could not be said for the small truck behind it, which
slammed into the back of the Lincoln at nearly full speed, and tilted over falling
across another lane of traffic. There was a series of metallic crunches, followed by
the sugar smacking sound of glass cracking. The Lincoln was not too damaged to
proceed, but there was a glop of broken metal between them. There was a bang.
It was not clear whether it was a firearm or a backfire.
Apostle pulled the car over the grass median that separated the fast road
from the side lane, and then pulled into a narrow side street.
Bright looked back.
Are we close?
Yes. Wire the car.
With what?
With that cylinder in the back.
What is it?
A free toy surprise for anyone who tries to break into the car. Oh, and call my
throwaway and leave your cellphone open.
He pulled over, sloppily leaving the car half on the sidewalk. The reached a
narrow concrete townhouse on a row of rather grimed over such. He rang the
buzzer at the gate.
There was a short pause, and then a voice slammed back. It wasn't Arabic.
You're up Ms Farsi. He whispered.
She recognized it as Dehwari, the dialect of Farsi spoken by Pakistan
residents of the Persian diaspora.
Yah hello.
Who is this?
She glanced at Apostle. He made an inverted triangle with his index fingers
and thumbs. She blinked several times, and then sauced up her accent, made it
more slurred, as if she were half drunk.
Yah you called for girl?
What? Who?
Umid called for me.

Ball. You suck my dick before you get to see Umid? Yes?
Yah sure.
The door buzzed open. Apostle pointed at a camera full in the small courtyard
entrance. Bright walked forward under it. Bright walked forward, Apostle stuck
some gum on the lack of the door and let it close with a thud, while he stood
outside, looking both ways. The courtyard went to complete darkness as the door
blocked even the thin orange light from the street lamp. Moments later a light, a
bare naked blue florescent, slowly flickered on. She resolutely began walking up
the stairs, hoping that there was a plan underneath all the trepidation.
She reached a door at the top of the narrow stairs, the paint peels leaving
bold shadows that stretched along the wall. She knocked on the door, and was
less startled than she thought she would be when an unkempt man was in the
door, his green pants down around his ankles, his penis erect and popping out of a
pair of white underwear that hand been rolled down just below his hips. She
smiled, but almost before the smile faded his hand was on her head pushing it
down.
Her thoughts were a tangle, on one hand it would be easy, she thought, to
just throw him back over her shoulder down the stairs. Basic judo. Really. On the
other hand she thought they were there to talk to Umid, and therefore violence
was out. She felt the pressure bending her down and she let her self sink on her
knees. She realized she had to at least move in cover, and reached her hand out
and wrapped her hand around it, and looked up and smiled.
At this moment she was desperately hoping that Apostle would pull some
stunt out of James Bond, slam the door open, and with a single shot drop whoever
this was. But there was not a sound. She realized that she was the distraction. She
had to survive in cover. Then she remembered the pistol under her arm.
Yah what? Fuck you. Money always first. Nothing free in this world but the
will of Allah.
The guard stopped, clearly swinging back and forth between forcing her and
paying.
Umid pay you.
Then you have to tell him you had me first. Yah?
Again there was a slow swing back and forth, clearly this was a hard decision.
I bet Umid heard the buzzer. He's going to ask why the delay.
I pay you after you suck me, or you never get to Umid.
Yah, and what Umid do to me if he smells your cock on my kiss?
Again a slow ponder, but while he was doing this, she managed to slip into
the room, and close the door to the stairs behind her. She realized he could not be
that tall, she was in ballet flats, rather than heels, and he was only an inch or two
taller than she was. She glared at him.
Yah, so you pay or my what?
He pulled up his trousers, turned around and moved to the table which was
the desk. It was covered with small cups in which resided dried remains of coffee.
He shifted around papers, socks, some of them used, underwear, pistols, various
papers, clearly looking for money. He found a roll of Iraqi dinars.
Yah what you want to pay me with? Euro. Dollars. You want me to rub my ass
in your face, then pay me with that toilet paper.
I pay dinari for my girls.

Umid no pay in dinari.

He stopped, again, and realized that she was obviously western, and that
alone argued for her value. He smacked his lips at the the thought, and stared at
the point of her hips where he imagined her treasure to be. He turned and and
began hunting again. She stared and rested her hand on the pistol. Her heart was
thrumming in an irregular fast rhythm, and she had an uncomfortable curling in
her gut. She'd shot before, but she had never shot at anyone.
She heard him give a low grumble.
Please you suck first. I pay you for full fuck later. He was still sorting
through the piles, but then turned around. His eyes were pleading. I know nice
place to go. You come with me?
She pretended to give a soft hearted look of symathy.
Yah, if it has a nice bed and you have some thing for me?
We have things you can't buy with money.
Really? Such as?
From Afghanistan. We can smoke. But after fuck.
Give me a bag first, then we can have fun. Yah?
Yah. Ok. Yah. Bag then fuck.
On the bed.
Ok, you follow?
Yah.
He opened a door to the side guard sleeping room, it had a bed that was just
about the length of the room, and a small nightstand. He began clearing piles
away to empty the bed, and then turned and gestured. She took what she
imagined were prancing steps in, and closed the door. His hands were instantly on
her breasts, clawing and manhandling them. He pawed her crotch, smiling as her
flesh sloshed under his fingers.
I want fuck.
She pushed back, and at the same time spun them around so his back was to
the door. She held back, she wanted him to think that she was either weak, or
weakening to his advances.
Yah oh you be a soft fu...
He doubled over from the pain of her knee hitting his groin, he was on his
knees and grasping at his midsection. She banged him against the door several
times, and then let him fall behind her on to the floor.
He tried to yell but he was busy gasping.
She tried to imagine herself popping him, but again, could not. Then she
sighted his mobile phone and she detached it from his belt. She didn't have cuffs
or other restraints, and finally in English.
Apostle! Where are you?
Talking to Umid. I am sure you can handle matters there.
She looked at the guard who was slowly standing up, and decided it was time
to pull out the pistol. She leveled it at him.
Yah, you like? I shoot better than you.
He stared at the pistol intently. She opened the door and slipped backwards.
Come on, you follow me now.
He glumly saddled out, his gate now a shuffle.
I kill you and fuck your corpse.

You want to breath better? Keep talking like that.

He lunged for the pistol, but only half way, it was a show of bravado. She
stepped back, familiar with the difference between real and show.
She waved the pistol at him.
Yah butter face, I know better.
He stopped in mid-lunge, stared at the barrel, and sat down.
She put the ear piece from her mobile in, and listened.
Umid and Apostle were indeed talking, but it was oddly devoid of tension.
They were playing poker, and laughing. It went on for another half an hour, and
then the door opened. Umid surveyed the situation, a woman he did not
recognize, her lace panties exposed, holding a pistol on his guard. With a clean
motion he drew a revolver, and pumped three bullets into his own guard. The
guard knelt down gasping and choking.
Idiot. OK Apostle, you win. He holstered the pistol, and pulled out a wad of
bills and handed it to Apostle. He looked at bright. She's tasty enough to be
eaten by mice.
You first Umid, remember what I told you.
The clambered down the steps. Umid and Apostle embraced in the way of
things, and parted.
Once in the car they drove away.
What the hell was that?
I told Umid he'd been burned.
You what?
I told him he was about to be listed as a terrorist, and it was time to close up
shop.
You what?
It's not secret for much longer.
That's all?
Oh no, I palmed his iPhone. He handed the glowing screen to her.
Does he know?
I left him a broken one.
How did you know?
I called him before.
Right.
And my phone told me what his phone was. It was a simple matter to pick up
a knock off.
Bright nodded.
So now what?
Umid's burned, he goes to his safe house.
And we follow him?
You are very clever, Ms. Bright.
I was sweating back there.
You could have sloshed him any time.
I've never killed anyone.
That's not going last.
I feel like a virgin at an orgy.
That is about right.
He pulled the car over and killed the lights. They waited until they saw a

figure come out of the townhouse. Moments later there was a flash from
phosphorus or magnesium, and then the orange of flames flickered into view, with
black acrid smoke pouring out of the windows.
Umid was a careful driver, the followed for 3 hours as he wound his way in
circles before pulling up to a small abandoned gas station at the far edge of
Baghdad.
So what do we do now?
We go. We can come back for him later.
Will he be here?
A rabbit, once flushed, doesn't leave his hole. We have what we need from
him.
So you left him there?
You can pick him up any time you like.
So what was on the iPhone.
His life.
You are, of course, going to turn that over.
Sadly I traded it for something else.
We could have rolled up his whole cell.
You can pick him up any time you want. Though you might want to get to
him before MISIRI does.
The Iranians aren't as efficient as Mossad.
Perhaps.
What was the point of this?
Jack was after the money. Umid's man moved the money for Air Genghis.
But Umid is one of theirs.
Umid is a free agent. He doesn't work for anyone, his money works for him
and he works with everyone. How do you think we made him? We've used him
before.
So you traded the iPhone for?
That's later. We had one more errand to run in Baghdad.
With who?
Where.
Where?
Jack's Baghdad apartment.
How did you get that?
It was on Umid's mobile, we downloaded the location file. Everywhere he
went, we knew.
Then his safe house...
He never went to his spider hole. Ever. Until that time.
Gabe looked languidly at Apostle.
This had better not be a stall on your part Apostle, some Usual Suspects tall
tale.
I'm not a very convincing liar.
This had better be going someplace.
It's going to Kabul next. Picking Jack's place clean wasn't particularly
interesting in itself.

What was the haul, Apostle?

A book of poems.
What?
Jack kept the important notes on paper, not electronically.
You kept that? Or was that also part of the trade?
Along with a player to be named later and a bagga hockey pucks.
IV
First Epistle to the Thessalonians
1
And every one had four faces, and every one had four wings.
Ezekiel 1:6
They were miles high, with a deck of clouds below, whose patchy holes
revealed a deeper floor of spackled blue waves. It was a small jet, with cramped
quarters, but spacious enough to make both of them wish that they could spread
out.
I still don't understand how we got on with that roll of dinari.
They were marked bills, from Umid. Passage on his air operation.
Does everyone run their own underground airline.
Umid brings people in and out of Afghanistan. Militants in, refugees and
drugs out. Sometimes they dispose of the bodies over the sea.
How are we safe?
I told the pilot that Umid's iPhone was to be paid on the other side.
A hostage, so to speak.
Yes.
Nothing to do until Kabul.
Except stay awake.
Then what?
That is what we find out there.
I almost feel like we are lost and going in circles.
It's like looking for your lost keys. First you look in all the usual places, then
you look in the unusual places, then in the wrong places.
The flight passed in quiet, and soon they were in Kabul's thin air, under a cool
rising moon. The wind tosseled through here hair, and they walked from the bare
corner of the concrete towards where there sat a cluster of cabs for rent.
A safe house?
But not one of ours.
Whose?
UK diplomatic, the special relationship has its perqs.
You talk like you know someone there.
I'm hoping their man in Kabul will be available to talk.
Bright nodded and they picked up the pace, hoping into a dilapidated Tata
motors four door car, that compared favorably with a phone booth for room and
comfort. The driver spoke quickly in Pashto but Apostle gave directions in a
Britlish accent that was of startling accuracy. The driver psuhed the limits of his
very limited machine and tore off, leaving a swarm of dust behind them.

This feels like an interview with a vampire. Are you on the outs with your
service?
You guys, my service, as if we are all butlers.
It is the butler that did it, isn't it?
Depends on who he's butling for, doesn't it?
Your service, a faint emphasis on that word, has been butling for us for a
while.
Depends on how long you pay your bills.
I miss the good old days when being a conservative meant paying your bills
on time.
It also meant winning your wars on time.
At this point it doesn't even mean making the missiles run on time.
And this is connected to what brought you two here.
We are looking into some loose ends left by two of our agents. Ones gone
over, the other has gone rogue.
And you think they may have come traipsing through my part of the shire?
One was last seen in Dubai, the other, I don't know, but he had a nexus
here.
Which is, or was?
This is an agent known as 'the Baptist' in spookspeak.
One of your interrogators?
Yes. He was probing at Damascus station, and then lit out. Later, his hand
turned up in the mail.
Some of yours have worked out of Kabul before. Do you have a picture?
Yes, we have pictures of him going in and out of the prison. So that was his
connection here?
No, a long time ago he was involved in with a local woman. I think the
daughter of that union, or someone claiming to be her, turned up.
And you think that was used to bring him here?
After a manner of speaking.
Yes, I believe so.
Well then Kabul Station would be the place to look.
We have some bits and pieces that may point to where she is, but I am
going to need more.
If you go to the prison, your own people will make you.
I would like your help.
I imagine I could ingratiate myself and ask some questions, but I would need
to be thoroughly briefed.
Yes, I imagine so.
I also am investigating the possible compromising of an operation.
What's the name of it.
The subjects in Damascus were being questioned about 'Air Genghis'
repeatedly. One kept saying 'The laden planes flew in, and the empty planes flew
out.' He said it as if his life depended on it.
What is Air Genghis supposed to be?
According to my briefing, a Company operation to supply arms to their
networks in Afghanistan and Pakistan. According to one of my people back in

Washington, there's no way to make the flight logs work out.

I can understand why that is classified, but not why it is a secret.
My belief is that there is another layer, and something else was piggybacked
on it. Specifically, planes were being sent here, and then flew on to land in Gaza,
with Israeli permission. Those planes then flew to Cairo, with something. In turn,
that cargo was sent to Libya.
So you believe that this was a front for funding the Arab Spring?
Or at least the Ides of March.
Not sure what you are getting at.
There is a hole. The planes arriving in Cairo had cargo, and that was sent on
to Libya. The planes leaving someplace were laden with something, and left
empty.
So there is a break in the chain?
Yes, and some how it goes through Baghdad and Syria, because the people
being tortured were based there, not here.
And you believe that they were torturing people to plug a leak in their
scheme?
I think they were torturing people to get their rocks off, and to cover up their
ill advised misuse of company resources.
But I thought you worked for your Foreign Office.
We let the flat, as it were.
So they were being tortured in the embassy in Damascus. Solid brass is all I
can say.
Boneheaded.
I didn't say what was solid brass.
Touche.
Your service wants to protect itself in the wake of an inevitable blow up, I
assume?
This is about throwing crumbs at ducks, everyone is hoping for something
they can use for career advancement.
What are you looking for?
The hole in the ship of State,
That would be in your chief executive's head, I'm afraid.
You don't think much of him, I recall you being more enthusiastic once.
Was I? Perhaps, but not now.
How bad is it here?
Worse than it is. Money is pouring in, it passes through the worst hands,
until it drops down a deep hole. You should have heeded history and gotten out
quickly. They call this the graveyard of empires for a reason.
For a long list of reasons.
Which your involvement here has lengthened considerably.
We were on a mission from clod.
Well your military instrument made a bloody mess of it.
No one who said so coming in was listened to.
Nor are they being listened to know. Everyone knows what it means that the
head general here is going to head your CIA.
It's going to be a Company town, that's what it means.
Back to your case, can you brief me on the questions you want?

Bright is going to go in, you just need an excuse to take her in.
At this both Bright and the brit startled.
She goes in in a burka.
They will fingerprint her.
And at that time, assuming someone matches, they will know who she was.
But I'll be gone, and you'll be gone.
She goes in because.
She has Pashto. I'll be briefing you on something else.
Did that just occur to you?
Yes, flexibility is essential.
It is not a good place to send women.
I was under the impression that applied to the whole of the country.
Some parts more than others.
Bright interjected. Do I get a say in this?
And if you had one, what would it be.
I'd go say yes of course. I just do not like being taken for granted.
Point, you have to admit it.
Point.
Look, I know you like to play on your instincts and let others catch up, but I,
for one, would be a great deal more at ease if we plan this out properly, with a
goodly portion of care and real back up plans.
Me too. I'm not comfortable with this charging in blind and letting things
work out. Not here.
Not into one of the nastiest holes that God allows to exist on this earth,
Fischer.
He nodded.
How long can you keep this truly UK eyes only?
At least a week.
Can we sleep?
She looked at him.
True, it's a safe house. You get some sleep, and when you are rested you can
spell me and I will rest.
When she lilted into gentle snoring, he rummaged around the safe house
closet to find some somewhat ill-fitting clothes to put over what he wore. There
was someone to visit, Sergei Ivanovich Solovyov, who went by many names. But
he had once been the station chief of the Soviet KGB station. It was to no small
extent his good graces that saw the release of a prisoner many years ago. It had
his reasons. He was in Kabul again, as he had been for some years, this time
working for mother Russia, in a different capacity.
It took him half an hour to walk the distance, taking several turns and
detours. He could not shake the feeling he was being followed, but never quite
saw the telltale figure. He detoured through an abandon building that he had
picked out from satellite, it's back wall was partially fallen down. He waited
several minutes in the shadowed coolness, restraining his breathing. He waited,
and then went back out the front door and moved on.
He passed through one of those invisible changes to which cities are prone,
with old thrown up concrete and brick low slung buildings almost instantly giving
way to larger, newer, construction from the war, with a gold rush building up of

better housing. Colors were in evidence, shiny metal, and brazenly clean vinyl
windows. Two blocks later he turned right and was at a door with a small polished
brass plate, which, in Cyrillic, pretended to be for a Russian mining company. He
rang the bell, and moments later there was a voice through the grill, in Russian.
Hello. May I help you?
Yes, I am a representative of the American Company, I've come to talk to
Solovyov.
Do you know him? I do not see you as having an appointment.
We used to play chess together. Tell him that Fischer is here.
There was a short laugh.
Don't tell me your first name is Bobby.
No, Avery.
I will tell him.
The door huzzed open almost immediately. He walked into a small hall, with
white and black marble floor. Beyond this was a double door. He was not in, this
was merely courtesy. He waited there for a long time, memorizing the small
details, such as which side the hinges were on. This office was new, he had not
been there before. Finally the double doors opened. He saw behind them a much
thinner Sergei Ivanovich, with a beard grown out to hide the hollows that he had
now acquired.
His face lit up. And they embraced and walked arm in arm to a small back
meeting room.
Capitalism does not seem to agree with you.
Is no pity, I still don't agree with it. It looks as if your new American
President's socialism does not agree with you.
The community always was socialist. Cradle to grave security, only the
grave may be much closer than you think.
Yes. I understand.
So what have you come for, Avery. He smiled, they had met first in 1986,
on the campus of Harvard University, walking through the quad. He had a blonde
haired Russian exchange student that he was desperately trying to impress,
despite the coldness she regarded him with, and he was volubly expounding to a
tall African-American woman. The two women knew each other, greeted, and the
group rapidly closed into a foursome. They were soon eating dinner at an
inexpensive texmex restaurant nearby, later that week, he remembered having
cold sex with the Russian girl, her face turned away in tears, her sex clenched
around him. He felt like he was driving through mud to thrust in her. She cried
every time they coupled. Finally years later he found out she had committed
suicide in Moscow. She had been married even when she was at Harvard, and her
husband beat her when she got home.
During this affair, he had long talks about the Russian character with Sergei,
who, in turn, asked him about American music and culture, because his own affair
with the dark skinned girl often forced him into awkward situations, particularly
involving the large quantity of marijuana they smoked while watching avant-garde
French films, and, at the same time, listening to Miles Davis. Some bonds between
men are stronger than anything that could be explained.
I have to go in to the prison again.
You know it is very different now, they do not use the old Prison any more.

Everything is different.
And the same.
What can you tell me about it that won't show up in the security briefings.
The whole place is run by gangs.
Do you have someone on the inside?
We always have someone on the inside.
I need to go in, I am looking for a secret.
You remember what I told you so long ago?
Two can keep a secret, if three of them are dead.
I also told you the truth about secrets. If I know something, that is secret. It
is a gold coin, and I holds it close to my heart. If two people know something, then
Kay Jay Bay knows it, and it is no longer a secret, it is a state secret. And like a
paper bill, it is handed out and handed out, and passed from hand to hand. Each
time worth less than the time before. Until finally a stripper parades with it rolled
up in her cunt, and everyone admits it has been like a soldier's cock, in every hole
it can find.
I mean a secret.
Then you will need more than my help.
Will you let me use your asset?
So long as you never know who it is, yes.
That will be sufficient. I will need something passed out.
This we can do, I will specify a drop, and your person will deposit it.
That will work.
And how will you pay for this. Is market mechanism. In the old days you
would use cigarettes and nylons, in the early new days, you could use dollars. But
we have both enough now.
I have a secret.
I told you about secrets.
Apostle held up a small folded piece of paper.
She is recently divorced, and has a new name. She mentions you.
Which she?
You know which she.
How do you know I do not have a woman?
You are thin. This is my coin, is she fine enough?
Sergei took the paper.
You always knew a man's weakness. I remember when we were young.
I was young and dumb.
No, your friend was the stupid one, he let himself be drawn in. That child has
been a hole in his head, from which anyone who knew could drain it.
As you said, Sergei, a state secret is like a ruble note.
Yes, and you know what has become of her?
No.
Nor I. But it cannot be good. Don't tell me you are looking to use that?
It is time to take the baptist to the river, and drop him in the water.
Apostle, I have know Vladmir Putin. He is evil man. I have known other evil
men. You are not an evil man.
So?
So stop trying to be one, it will only bring your grief.

Apostle stopped and looked at his old friend for a long time.
To mother Russia, to St. Cyril, and then we start over again.
Yes that is always you, a very powerful attack. But someday you must learn
to play defense.
It's the combination Sergei.
Da, it's the combination.
We must talk some night into morning, like the old days.
Yes. It is too bad we cannot be four again. She was perfect for you.
She was cold.
Because she loved you, Apostle.
I always thought she was a spy.
Oh she was. She was. But she would have come out of the cold for you.
I wouldn't have known what to do with her.
You would suffer, but beautifully.
Is that what spies do?
I tell you. Russia will always have better spies, and better vodka, than
America.
Why is that Sergei?
Because they are about suffering, and poetry, and our poetry is better than
yours.
I don't understand the connection.
What happens when you suffer? You drink vodka and write poetry. And then
you go out into the darkness, and do dark deeds. Then you write more poetry.
Spying is about finding the rhyme at the core of human evil. Read Pushkin, he said
it best.
America has its darkness. What Pushkin?
Two ideas can no more exist in the moral world, than two bodies exist in the
same place in the physical world.
I still don't understand.
My friend, do you know that Afghanistan is Russian word?
Really?
Yes. It means, Afghanistan.
Apostle nodded. They embraced. And he left.
2
And he said unto, Son of man, Stand upon thy feet, and I will speak unto thee.
Ezekiel 2:1
Kabul, like many early modern cities, is an exercise in sprawl. Before towers,
before real centralization, where power and activity are spread over the whole of
the city, as clan chiefs met with their heads of household and they with their key
lieutenants. And Kabul was small. Apostle could feel the breath of power on coffee
and hashish that seem to exude from the walls, form the eyes that peered out
from windows at him as he trudged along. He passed through the same courtyard
as the morning, the crumbling bricks jutting out from the concrete facade. He
turned around the corner, and was facing overgrown fruit trees and flowers gone
to seed, ragged squash vines slopped over the beds. He waited, and waited.
There was no movement. He balled up the over garments and tossed them into a

heap against the wall. Then he stole softly to the back door, and quietly pried it
open.
There was only the soft squeak of the aged hinges. Quickly he was through
the abandoned kitchen, and to the hall, and then behind the door there, he
waited. Not long afterwards, a man in local garb walked through moving more
quickly than stealth allowed. In an instant, the ambush was there and gone:
Apostle's arm was around his neck, and a knife was to the man's throat.
Looking for some one?
There was a bit of a strangled gurgle. Apostle knew he was not clenching that
hard, so he choked on harder, and then relaxed.
I know you speak English.
Yes. Ok. I English understand.
Why are you following me.
I you no follow.
Apostle held him firmly.
I do not believe you.
Ok. Yeah. I you lied. I you follow.
Why?
I was paid to.
By who?
By a man.
Which man?
He works for a man, who works for a man, who works for Karzai.
Then you will have to take me to this man.
I you cannot.
Then I will snap your neck.
I you cannot.
That is what it means, to truly believe.
If they find out that you were caught, it will be the worse for your family.
If you do not know who paid me, how will you know who to tell?
Tell the street, tell the world.
But you I do not know.
I don't need to know, I just need to tell. With this he closed his hand over
the mouth and nose of his victim and tightened. Not enough to kill, but enough
that even with all the struggling, he fell into the dark sleep of near asphyxiation.
Once Apostle was sure the man was out, he picked the man's body clean, took his
clothes, and left him naked in the courtyard. He would be found soon enough.
We have a clock running. Someone local knows I am here, and I was tailed.
She blinked, still waking up.
Where did you go?
To talk to the former KGB station chief. I have a way of getting information
out with out going through our own side's hands. But I was followed.
What did you do?
I left my tail naked in the street. He will be dealt with.
With this he dumped the contents of the man's pockets.
What can you tell me about him from that?
She began sorting through the loose notes and paper, most scrawled and

hand written.
Well first, he's Pak.
How can you tell.
The letter.
What is he doing here?
I will have to read all of this.
I'll get us some food and we can sort this out.
So who was he Apostle?
He was a freelance sent by someone in the ISI.
How did the ISI know? Do you know?
You know who told them.
No. I don't.
You did, Gabriel.
That's a very stark accusation, Apostle.
Truth isn't a defense, I know.
How do you know I told them.
Shall we get to that? I didn't know then.
Apostle took a slurping breath, as his ribs floated and jabbed his insides.
The three had been going over plans carefully.
Apostle, are you sure you don't want her wearing a wire?
No wire, just the recording device.
Please stop talking about me in the third person.
Once again, full marks to Ms. Bright.
You need to explain things more clearly Apostle.
No, clarity and secrecy are not aligned.
Radio will be picked up, it would be a violation of security.
True true, radio silence is a very old principle.
This is a simple plan, the only sticky parts are getting in, and getting the
interview. We can't plan for that. A wire would not help, because there is no
reason to believe I would be any better at talking my way around whatever
problems arise than Ms. Bright would be.
What about getting out? She would have to reveal a great deal in getting the
information.
The prisoner would not want to do that.
And why not?
Apostle smiled before delivering his idea.
Because if she is caught, he's outed as someone who knows something.
That would open him for special attention.
Torture.
Or other fates worse than death.
I thought you were opposed to torture.
I'm not going to torture anyone. But I will take advantage of America's
increasing reputation for unpleasantness.
That's a fine line, Apostle.
They are all fine lines.

As she was dressing Bright looked in the mirror, she was checking the
imperfections on her skin, and frowning.
You aren't getting old.
I feel like it.
Old comes from the inside.
What I don't understand Apostle, is why you are obsessing about this case.
Aren't there more important things to do?
Do you know what our colleagues in the Embassy are spending their time
on?
No.
Cats. Cats have moved into the Embassy.
You aren't serious.
No, they aren't serious. So anyway cats have moved in, and there is a huge,
time consuming, endless, debate over whether they should be allowed. We are
half way around the world, and the US Embassy in a war zone is busy being a
neighborhood association.
Just because they are busy being trivial doesn't mean we should be.
He shot back, with a stern conviction in his voice.
No. This isn't trivial.
We are returning a girl to her father, as far as I can tell.
The girl, is bait.
I still don't see for what.
John has gone over to the other side. There is no telling how much he has
already aided them.
What can one man tell.
John isn't just telling, he's hiding. He's had nearly a blank check to let go or
to render. I think he's been compromised for a while. How many from the other
side have been given a free pass from him? Or how many has he broken quickly,
so their tales were left untellably untold?
I just look out there, and I see the Arab Spring, and the debt crisis, all the
big things, and wonder why we aren't doing something about those.
We are. Yes, perhaps we are the police officers handing out traffic tickets at
a riot.
Why can't we do big things?
Because that, is the province of the political leadership. I will defy my
superiors, but I haven't yet gone rogue.
Surely you can't imply the President wants things to go wrong?
For who? Wrong for who?
Are you implying the President chooses winners and losers?
Are you implying the CinC doesn't make choices?
The heart had skipped a beat as new directions opened up.
To change the subject, I still wish we would be in communication.
That's for people who get a hard on from hardware. You will be better being
natural and talking to him. Remember, you have to seduce him with your words
and voice. He needs to feel cradled in your soft love, and voice. Pay attention only
to him, and concentrate not on how you feel, but on what we want.
And that's the location.
He's going to give it in code. The code is in the poems. You read your line, he

reads his. When there are no more lines, he will tell you. Everything hangs on your
rendition of Rehman's poems. For now, there is only that.
So you didn't go into the prison?
No. That wasn't the plan, Gabe.
Someone there thought he saw you.
We dressed the brit in my clothes.
I don't believe you.
That's because you are willing to trek all the way here just to interrogate me
yourself Gabe.
If you want something done right...
... delegate it to someone else.
You must think you are amusing, Apostle.
No. I'm not here for your entertainment, Gabe.
What are you here for, it certainly isn't the mission.
And what is the mission, Gabe?
For you, to obey orders?
Is that the mission?
That is my position.
The missionary position. Gabe? That doesn't sound like you.
You are making jokes on borrowed time.
You wanted to know what happened.
I want enough to hang you with.
You missed your chance, a simple accident could have occurred.
Too many loose ends.
Which means you haven't found Bright, or the girl, or Jack.
That's not your concern.
Since it is keeping me alive, I would say that isn't an operative assertion.
Kept you alive, Apostle.
Thank you for your confirmation.
So what did you do then?
I went and sat in a coffee house and drank turkish coffee.
Seriously.
Remember, I had been tailed. I wanted to know by who, and for what
reason.
And it logically followed that you should drink coffee.
It logically followed to be someplace public enough to be found.
3
And he said unto me, son of man, go, get the undo the house of Israel, and speak
with my words unto them.
Ezekiel 3:4
Coffee is a poison, and it was eating at the back of his head. His fourth small
pot of silky, silty black elixir, and left him feeling light. It was in this mood that he
noticed that one particular individual was being allowed to sit without drinking
anything. Normally he would have been hurried off, unless he were a regular
customer or had some particular connection. But it was clear from his almost

befuddled looks at who was employed there talking to him, that he was not a
habitue of this particular place.
So Apostle stood up walked over, pulled out a bag, inside of which was a
chess clock, and rolled up board, and sat down.
Chess?
The man, a ragged beard, at the bottom of a pointed face and prominent
nose, topped with a ragged turban and poorly chopped chopped hair looked
startled.
"
The man nodded, but was still off balance. Clearly, he didn't expect to be
made.
But within minutes the game overwhelmed everything else, over and over
again the set up the pieces, moving with lightning speed. Fingers wrapping, hands
grabbing. Then after almost half an hour, Apostle had ground down his opponent
with defeat after defeat. After one particularly messy debacle, his opponent
reached across to hit the clock, and Apostle slapped his hand down over it, and
stared into the man's eyes. In Urdu.
Take me to who you work for.
The man looked back, a kind of pleading in his face.
Take me to who you work for.
The man clearly wanted to stand up, but also could not, his legs simply would
not obey his mind, fear was tightening its grip around the muscles of his arms and
chest. Apostle stood up and towered over him. The man slowly got off, Apostle put
his arm around the man's shoulder, and cleared up the chess accoutrements, and
they began walking with him down the street.
Over a mile away, they reached a heavy metal door with a small sliding
porthole in it. The man knocked, and immediately it slid open. Some words in Urdu
were quickly exchanged. The door opened inward. They walked through into a
cool dark space, with a slight movement to the air. There were two men leaning
against a wall, AK-47's over their shoulders. They were so thin that their chests
seemed imploding. They were talking very quickly and smoking. Apostle could lay
a small fee on what they talking about. It was not important, however.
What was important was that he was off the grid. Anything that could be said
here was off the record, no mention of it would ever go on record, and less
someone mentioned it. That was a very powerful thing indeed.
Take me to you work for. He knew that he would get a response, if it was
the last thing he beat out of him. And he wasn't even touching either the face or
the body. There were some things that mind made more powerful, because it
imagined something more awful than anything which could be inflicted. In the
minds eye, everything that could be imagined, was floridly so, but in the imagined
world, not a scratch could be given, and each touch was the first that was
received, over and over again. Think on that for a while, each imagined punch will
have the same impact.
And it was working. Each question made his face more pliant than the last.
He was not doing anything, it was only the mind, and what a powerful thing mind
was. And at last the inmate, for such he had become, finally stammered out what
he wanted to hear. But it was not what the apostle wanted to hear, not where the
was, or an exact, or even inexact, location. It was a sound like the spitting on a

brick, and it meant that was not going to get what he wanted.
Instead he stared off into the hazy distance, and realized that capturing the
world renowned figure was not the point, even if he wanted it to be the point.
Osama bin Laden was not point, to the friends, or foe, or anything in between, the
was an illusion, a figment, a morbius, a enigma. The real enemy was not a
dictator. It was even Bashar al-Assad that was the only target, though he would be
harder to take out.
It was only us. It was only us. People didn't really want to know how much we
had spent on this, and they were not going to look closely. After all, Bashar would
be removed from the stage, eventually, and their would be a new dictator, though
that might take some time. After all Libya would receive a new dictator, when
there had been a reordering.
So Apostle could one anyone of a dozen hours to lay at his feet, and be
cremated, and nothing would change but a few lines on the map. He didn't even
push down, but walked away from the man who was not a friend, nor a foe, nor a
complex amalgam of the two. Simply put, they had nothing in common for the
moment, and maybe for many moments yet to come. The man was slumped over,
but not badly so, much of his position was in fact a pantomime, not really an act,
per se. He unhand the man, and went away, as if nothing really had happened.
Things like this happen all the time, and nobody thinks anything of it. Is different
in the West, where meaning has some innumerate value, which though it may not
be quantified, it can be if you try. Here in what is called the Middle East, some
things just happen, and that's all there is to it.
So that's all there is?
That is all we need to speak of. We can exchange some good banter if you'd
like.
From stiffness across the table, there didn't seem to be much point. So Gabe
finished his cigarette, nasty habit which was trying to be snuffed out by the
authorities, if they could do so.
The Gabe left after a few minutes, a very long few minutes. There was
nothing that they could hold on, so 48 hours later, the Apostle left.
He sorted through all things, notice that a few of them were missing. Though
could not expect that anything out of the ordinary would be done about them.
Though the made appropriate motions, he knew the nothing would be done
about it, though nobody in anything about question. He sighed, and got on his
things, because he did in fact have some things to be done. And they were
difficult things indeed. It's not that they were unimportant, but time was not part
of the equation. But caution was part of the equation. And the cautions as well as
optimistic. There were two things that he had to do. One of course was to talk to
Dig again. The other one was to find find the old man, though he didn't know
whether it was as a friend, or foe.
Do you know what you're going to do? Miss Bright ask in a tone of voice
which was not neutral, but did not tell what it was. Friend, foe, both?
No. Do you?
I have been doing what I'm told, for quite some time.
Hence the feeling of a dual nature.

That is always the way it is. Call me strange in that way.

Always?
We women like that, always.
We men are not like that, at least most of the time.
I know, that's why your so predictable.
Do you plan it that way?
Nature has it planned, and individuals just take their cues from it.
So it's probably and a eggs thing. That was not a question, but a
confirmation.
Do you realize this is long searching discussion that we have had in quite
some time?
I hadn't noticed.
Of course you didn't, its girls that notice that it's a long conversation. Boys
think that there are other things to not talk about. While girls know that they are
not talking about, and it drives them wild, simply crazy.
So should we have more of these not conversations, just to keep in
practice?
It doesn't matter, reflexes will take over if allowed. We will have more not
conversations than any woman would want anyway.
So what do we need? Or do I want one to know?
If I tell you, it be a surprise.
And you can that, could you.
No, that would mean I was pleading for some time to my self. To unwind for
a bit, because you had been tiring.
In other words it's a strain to deal with men if you're a woman.
But it is the only game until you have babies.
And then it's all right, because you have babies?
Only dull women will completely give up on men, you if they like babies
more. Which, I will add, is not the majority position. Though will a time most of the
will give babies the nod.
Why is that?
Because it takes a long time for babies to win. Mostly they just giggle, and
gurgle, and looks sweet. Which is nice for a time.
Why are you telling me this?
Isn't it obvious?
No, I am dense.
I think you consider changing careers.
And get with the program?
Something like that, is I believe the expression you would use.
You mean thinking about babies, that's very forward.
Men have to be led to the precipice, and look over the edge. That's the only
way.
To, what, exactly.
You have a great time to think about that sort of thing.
It was at that moment that you realize he was being asked to probe position.
In he could either except, or shut up. There was a third option, but not from
someone who grasp enough the game that women played with men. Of course
there were inns and outs to be explained, of course, but those are for legal minds

to sort out. Or at least they can seem like legal to someone who wants Qur'an as
his legal text.
But he had already shifted his attention to other things, because he wanted
to find what could be said as the old man.
To what do they owe this dubious pleasure? Neither Apostle nor Miss Bright
would ever willingly consign an hour of their time to the dubious pleasures of his
good graces. And it was not for the information about Osama bin Laden, who they
had realized was of know value them, though some agent or other, some
informatics handler or other, call him what you would, or her, she or he would get
a notch for being the one who would take down the great almighty vizier, now
that it did not matter in the least.
It would also not matter to get someone's hide flagged In chasing after Pres.
Assad, who would person's scrag anyone who dared to do so. There are some
targets which only a madman would go for, not that a madman couldn't do it, but
it would also mean, in all probability, the madman's life. And normally professional
people don't like those odds. But recruiting a madman to do the deed for you is a
tricky piece of business, there is so much wrong, and so little right, that could
happen. Think about the timeline of the Syrian civil war, and remember that this is
only a piece of the puzzle. There is the Arab Spring, in all its glory, in Libya, Egypt,
the place called Iraq, and every spot in between to think about. And that's just the
living part of a subterranean struggle which comprises the US, Russia, and all of
the states that want a piece of it, plus China for staying away from anything
except profitable rebuilding.
But the old men would know that this would not entice them in the least, he
had a good eye for these sorts of things. He would not even proud them, there
was too little time left in his life for such things. Too little time left, to prod and
pull, there were younger men suited too jostling and pulling, and wasting
someone's precious time. Which was why he did so, he wanted to know what he
could offer them, and what he could entice them with. It was only the unexpected
that peaked his interest.
If it was Osama bin Laden, or President Assad, or any of the other little
problems which he could deal with, it had to be something either trivial or vast.
And it was trivial, he could dismiss it, and go about his merry way.
The room to spare, and decorated with An assortment of either Syrian or
Turkish wares, there were few enough of these in any event, he was not very rich,
or at least not in this terms. It was over 15 years since he had any reason to want
anything, so he gave away almost everything that he had. And then some.
So the old man looked at the two of his visitors, and waited for them to say
something, because they interested him, very much so. And there was so little to
interest him at all, he had few friends, or few acquaintances, few of any one who
really mattered. But what he did have was a prospective, one of the few people
shared. He knew that everyone knew everything, if they had bothered to think
about it, and fill in the connections with words that did not mean anything, and
did not need to mean anything, because they were fill in the blanks. Then you or
anyone, could get to the real meat of what you wanted to say. All the rest was
noise in the present context, though of course it had meaning in some other
context. There were only a few problems which could not be solved in seven
steps, and really six with a very small number of exceptions. The problem this,

most people could only think of three or so steps, and only limited number of
those. Mostly, people fudged and made up a few steps, thinking them selves
smart, when in reality, they were down and just used some simple clues. With
those clues in place they thought they were smart, very smart indeed. But as is
said, they were just closer to the truth.
So the old man looked at his two visitors, trying to guess what it is they
want, even before they knew what they wanted. Think of it as Gossfield Park, it
isn't how many steps away from the truth they are, its how many that they
combine the steps in a pattern. One person could be right on top of the problem,
and never know it, because they only see two or three steps, as opposed to 10. in
reality having for steps is progress, and have five scenes amazing, and having six
looks like magic. Even though five steps is not noticeably smarter than average. In
fact, having three steps run tremendously fast looks like genius until you actually
think of how it's done. Think about the difference between old chess, and new.
What's really involved is how the patterns work out, with old chess creeping
along, where as new chess on astonishes because the moves go somewhere
quickly rather than slowly.
Then he knew what they wanted, even before they did, he was old and new
that, where as most people are young, at least they thought they were, and they
were not going to feel differently about it. That's why young people play chess,
and old people remember the moves that they made once upon a time, and play
out the moves by wrote. It is only the very smart people who know that they really
are old, most people think they are young. Which is not the case, in fact by 30 day
are already getting old. They are just aren't many moves left.
But not many people know this, even though the facts are there to be seen.
That's why they prefer to play checkers, because there are fewer moves to be
seen. Which is why Old Man beats old men who don't know the real rules of the
game.
He, that is the old man, had not spoken yet, nor was he going to do so.
It was their turn, and they were going to have make them, that was the first
test.
Finally, Apostle realized this. Already several seconds had already passed
him by, he did not realize that it was a game. But he was learning.
The here that you know something about the next move we should be
making.
Yes, that is true. What do you want to know.
Honestly, I don't know, so that is precisely what I want to know: what should
I be playing for.
Why not Osama bin Laden, that is what most people are playing for
That doesn't interest me, it did a few days ago. But I at least see that the
head start belongs to other people, and I will not catch up to them.
And you don't think that you'll catch up by playing and with me?
No, I don't think I will. What's more, you don't think I will either, so it would
be foolish to even try. That is, if you think I am not a fool, which I don't think you
do.
I am trying to please, and if you want to catch up, you can do so, if you
want.
There was an air of passing neglect on apostles face, he would not want to

have anything to do with Osama bin Laden, because it would be a Knight, while
the the King was still on the board, and he desperately wanted to know where.
I don't think that that would be a reasonable goal, do you?
That would be up to you. I am only here to play for what you want. If you
want to play for what is on the board, who am I to say different?
I somehow doubt that you that indifferent to the stakes of our game.
apostle sensed something, but he did not know what it was. He checked with Miss
Bright, who was looking at the old man, and pondering what he knew, like him,
she thought he was hiding something, but she didn't know either what it was, but
unlike Apostle, she had a clue.
If you were in our position, what would you like to play for, knowing what
you know?
Then with a blazingly fast speed, he took the rook, and with a little gesture of
his mouth, he opened it and said.
That his a very interesting question, most people would blunder along, to try
and get a what they could see in their grasp. Maybe they would think that they
had a a chance for something that would be of use to them in getting some
promotion, perhaps Osama, perhaps even Assad, or some minions of his. Why
don't you take one of these?
It was tempting, but it was obviously, to both apostle and Miss bright,
obviously a trap. They had to ignore it, even though it was in plain sight, and
tempting them.
Tell me, do you want that piece to tempt me? It's just staring at me, and I
know it's not for me to take, even though I want to take it.
Why don't you just take it then?
Because it would be bad, though I have not figured out exactly why.
Why didn't you take it and find out?
We don't have unlimited games to play. I know it's bad, that's enough for
me.
So what do you you want to play for.
Miss Bright interjected: I thought we started with this question before, he
wanted you to tell us, and we still haven't got a response. We know it's not for
Osama, because he's useless. And we know it is for Assad, because we'd get torn
apart.
So why not think of who is left?
We don't know who's left.
Then that is what we are going to play for, agreed?
Apostle set up the pieces, and made a move, because now they knew what
they were playing for, the name of ISIL, because that was not a name that they
had, and could be useful, that would be for someone else to decide.
After a while the old man looked up from the board, and gave them a name
that no one had uttered before. It was unknown to the West, and that is all that
mattered. It didn't matter what the name was, because the old man would have a
new name ready to go, when this one was gone. That is the way the game was
played, a new man just the same as the old one. The old man would play for that
name, just as he knew what it was. He was honest, he wasn't going to play if he
did not know the name. But he would have it before anyone else did.
Then he would charge for it, infinitely greater than that. He always did, that

was his secret. To charge more for a name until it was worthless.
Then other men would profit from how to get the man, even if he was not
worth it, except to the very few. It was there concern if the profit was greater than
the risk, not their concern if it could even be done. Because some of the time, the
man who bought the name took the risk that he could do it if he tried, or with
plenty more money, that other people could spend. Because after all, money was
fungible, and could be gone from pockets that did not want to spend it.
4
For I have laid upon the the years of their iniquity of the house of Israel upon:
according to the number of days that thou shalt lie upon it down shall bear their
iniquity.
Ezekiel 4:4
So you found what you're looking for?
I found what you were looking for, which is more important.
What's that?
A name which controls part of Syria, part of Iraq, and is mentioned by
anyone. Interested Dig?
If it's really the name we are interested in, there are innumerable shysters,
and, I'm sorry to say, your definitely on that list.
What do I have to do, to get off the list?
You give me the name, and if it works out, you can have the reward if it's
true.
That's not much of a prize, because you could snuff it out and then say it
wasn't anything.
Then you could have nothing, if you like, that's the alternative. And as
alternative go they only get worse from there.
What if I take my chances?
Then we give the money to someone needing, someone who graduated
from the right college, for example.
So what you're saying is that you only want to play with certain people, and
I'm not on the list.
You can get on the list, and that's worth something, because then in the
present you might be on the list next time.
It seems like I been demoted.
You could say that, I would use of more euphemistic phrase then that.
I thought I was using a euphemism.
Even the euphemisms have been denied, that much I can tell you, but your
not on list to know the new euphemisms. I'm sorry about that, the call that was
made over my head.
That's all right, I can get the new euphemisms from someone with a potty
mouth. There are plenty of people who still beans when they, how does one say,
get leave it drunk.
There was a pause, which even Ms. Bright could hear, the she wasn't home
the line, exactly.
Finally Dig said, I'm sure there are, but I didn't think that you'd know
enough of them. It means that a new President needs to be put in place.

There working on it.'

No comment. Which meant that yes a new president was coming to office,
and it seemed as if it would be of a different party. At least that was the rumor
going around town, and by town, I mean Washington. Really there are three
places in America, the city, that's New York. The town, that's Washington DC, and
the rest which pops up from time to time, though Los Angeles and Boston our the
most problems. But realize, Boston and LA our close together in the minds of
people in the City, and the Town. That's the way they looked from there, any rate.
Anyplace else, was part of the back lot, accept Mars and the moon, which
were beyond remote. Though India had designs on Mars, which would make it,
eventually, part of the grand design of things. Though that was anyone's guess as
to exactly the moment that that happened. It would have been in stages, of
course, a few people would new, and then more, and ,then more, until finally it
was a reality that no one could to deny.

Revelations
1
I admit that this wasn't a gathering that I, myself, would not be
extraordinarily interested in. But, then, I was on clock, so it didn't really matter
whether I was, or was not, engaged. I had my camera with me, with three of the
best lenses on it, and was there to shoot pictures. and I would allow other people
to figure out what they meant. What I was there to do, and do it very well, was to
create a collage of images, which would be representative of all that could be
seen. leaving nothing out, the way other photographers would do. Yes, I'm one of
a half-dozen shooters who will go into a view, and come back with a prcession of
what it was like from half a dozen different angles, not just who was there, but
how it looked from a dozen different angles looking in, and looking out at the
audience.
So, that's me. Where am I? I am in a lecture hall, with white boards in the front, and at least 200
seats looking at the person lecturing from the back, intently looking at what ever comes to the lecturers
fancy. As I said, this would not be the place I would, in any measure, be looking forward to, when there
are so many different angles to shoot life from. more on this when I described the scene.
But then, I wouldn't be living in Boston, if I had my way with it. LA would be much more my
case, with dozens of stars, and thousands trying to be stars, and millions glomming up there image.
because, LA would be the place for the paparazzi to just shoot in any direction, and get reams full of
someone who is trying to be some place. which is why, when, on my own dime, it was the place to be.
But I was working for a few days, for one of the oddest characters in my Rolodex.
In order to tell what I was doing here, I need to describe what, exactly, was going on here.
because again, there is no way that I would pick this on all of the events to park my body in front of.
but again, I was being paid, and that meant that someone else wanted someone to shoot what was going
on. It was a lecture from a 50 something Russian dude, and I mean that in quite the way the lecturing
throng, which was 20, and more importantly, 30 and 40 somethings. people on the younger age of the
spectrum, were in to images, not as much as reality. the older set would have liked Edward Tufte, or
some such, where as the younger set wouldn't have known what he was. Or, like me, he would be
shooting his ass at the release of a big picture book on his most recent exploits. I will have to say, it was
interesting, if you got your rocks off on what he was doing.
Anyway, because I shouldn't mention the actual name, contract concerns if you must know, he
was lecturing on a new type of language, that he was inventing. If my employer was here, he would
probably be able to explain why it was important, I can just tell you, it was the strangest bit of
strangeness that I had ever encountered. you have to understand, particularly in someplace like Boston,
there were all sorts of strangers going on, and most of them had zero attendees. but then, that's what
Boston does, think up strange things, and see if they stick. Because, rather more often than you would
care to think about, which is to say more than 1 billion chances, they would. and if they did the lecturer
would move to the southern coast of California, and lecture people on his idea. that's what Robert
Reich did, another man who I have only known because of work.
There were about 175 attendant attendees, and maybe 25 or so actually had some reason to get
what was going on in the lecturers skull. and their were half a dozen or so people like myself
documenting the hell out of what we done understand, but we do understand, that there is a little bit of
money to be made. we were the group who was documenting the reaction to the rapid new take of the
lecture. Someone had to it.
What he was talking about, was notating not just in a line, them way most pictures notate either

left to right, or right to left ( such as Arabic, which I had just documented some various intellectuals
saying that when English dies, Arabic will be one of the languages that will replace it. I guess, you'll
just have to trust them, because I wouldn't pick Arabic.) but instead of a line, there would be motion in
two dimensions, rather than one ( with, of course, breaks). I understood this on and intuitive level,
because I documented with pictures, which have their own set of reasoning capacity. when a picture is
laid next to text, changes the way the text is thought about. Which is of course why they sent me.
A picture may not be thousands of words, to the uneducated, but in the brain of the educated it
sparks off a chain of reasoning, which is different. How it is different would take a large number of
books to get it half right, because instinctively, it was something in your brain which lit up, and woke
up, when it was tickled by the right combination of neurons. or so the teacher who had gone me in to
the field which I now made my living at. So I guess I must know something about it, even if in words I
cannot articulate it very well.
You also have to understand, that while my language brain was talking, my photonic brain was
snapping pictures. I got in to a site where the lecture, unbeknownst to him, was talking in profile. It was
at that point that you could see how rotund he was. he wasn't very much rotund, but enough so his belly
sagged out several inches, though it was neatly tucked in. His face was also exaggerated, with his lips
exaggerated. It was then, while still shooting, I realized in that odd way that came to me while
stamping it out at the same time, he was Russian Jewish, and not just merely Russian. As I said, I was
trying to stamp out, but the inflection came in to my brain.
From this image, one could not tell what he was lecturing about, only that he was intent on
getting a point across to the people he was lecturing to. their was a quiver in his eyes, and a reach to his
eyebrows, and a sagging around his lips, which showed intently the enormous grasp, which he was
communicating even though the picture did not say about what. in the picture, on seats, you could see
half a dozen different reactions, some were hanging on every word, others were confused, one who was
very old, took a grain of salt with every pronouncement made. I lived for these kinds of pictures,
because they showed intensity of the lecturer, and a variety of viewpoints as to what he was speaking,
on the part of the attendees.
This went on for a little while, and while high got several pictures, there was a key shot which I
have just described. then it ended, and there were two kinds of people: one going out, in disorder rows;
and one coming in to ask questions. now if this had been a celebrated event, many of the people who
were going in, would be, how shall I say it, kooks. these sort of people who thought they had
something to say, but in fact was noise coming up from the background. and people who had been
lecturing, would politely listen, and give no more thought to them. but this was not the case with the
lecturer. no one but a few people would have known of this event, unlike say, a Noam Chomsky event,
which would be blazoned in every note and cranny, not because of anything he would say - though it
would be interesting - but because every sort of strange being who inhabited that strange collection
would be there.
I, of course, went to take pictures of how he would interact with the two dozen or so
questioners. it would again show whether he was sincere in what he was lecturing on, again, without
words. and it was one of these questioners which I gained insight...
Snap.
I just taken a picture of the lecture and three people looking to ask questions. By now, the
lecture was over and he was asking questions of a few dedicated attendees who wanted to know very
abstruse mathematical, or insightful realizations that poured forth from their minds. Because, this was
the time where people sorted out into various strands. First there were, let's call them groupies, who
wanted to believe that this was the Messiah. They wanted to believe that he, and only he, had the
answers, in this case trying to argue that his grouping of symbols, which arranged things not as groups

in a line, but as equations which would invariably lead to greater wisdom. Then their were people who
did not know exactly what he was talking about, but in their mind, saw him as one of the figures who
would revolutionize knowledge with the stroke of a magic marker. Then there were old people who
wanted to disprove what he was doing, and in most cases, substitute their own work for his. Then there
were two of us taking pictures, and in a sense, we were the most important, because by taking pictures,
we sublimed everything into History. Think of all the gatherings, and talks, which were lost into time.
Snap.
I had just taken a picture with a woman, about 25, and a man who was well over 50. if you can
guess, the young woman wanted, desperately, for him to be the carrier of some great wisdom, but, he
was a myriad of stars in an imagined troop, each one of which had some bits of wisdom. The older
man, however, wanted to disprove the lecturers theory, and replace it with one of his own devising.
Everything was parts on the stage, with directions we can't see, but they are there, nonetheless, with
some sort of God, reaching behind the levers to spend them into a drama.
Snap.
With each picture, the collage which I was shaping for the man who sent me to this, group ever
firmer in detailing what had happened. I was trying to get everybody who seemed useful, everybody
who would have something to say. Generally, there would be one picture which would stand in for each
person, and relentlessly describe their impression. It did not matter to me, whether he was right or
wrong. Though, personally, I had heard things which grouped him in two a specific box. That was, he
was trying to get things out of one box, and into another. Specifically, he was trying to make it so that
symbolic nature could also grasp pictorial nature. As a person who is on the pictorial, I didn't think he
would grasp some intrinsic details, but I kept taking pictures, because in the end I was not the director,
only someone who took pictures.
And that suited me fine. Let someone else decide what is important, because those who had the
money to hire me, would get the finest work from me, and deliver money that I would spend as I chose.
Snap.
Their are those people, such as myself, who can compartmentalize the act of taking pictures,
which was a three dimensional act, and one of describing the events on, for example, a notepad which
was how I would be explaining them. With the three dimensional act, I reduce things into pictures, but
they are in a line, which the notepad then describes. It may be somewhat abstract for most people,
because they don't have pictures that will gravitate. One of the most important features of this, is you
don't want to take a picture with another picture taker in frame. If it isn't in view, it doesn't exist. So I
and the other picture taker were discrete, and we didn't take pictures which would disturb the others
documentation of this project.
It just wasn't done. Of course when there were many picture takers, such as when some movie
star drove by, that was different. But even then, you wanted the illusion that it was just you and the
celebrity. You wanted the hallucination, that the final reader was grasping the picture, because it was
there picture, that was the first image that you put in to the head of the reader, and no one else was a
round to capture this spectacle. That was the second image. And don't believe that the choreographing
was anything other than intentional. The lilt was, between the players, to box out the other, with a
ruthless grin shining as to how to get the other snappers out of the way.
But then that's gets back to independent contractors, who work for themselves and vend their
pictures on the open market, and those people working for someone else, and to get a little ahead of

myself, employees, who know where there bread is buttered on.

Snap.
The other picture taker was trying to get stretched, by taking out of line pictures, such as above,
where he would be on top of the table. I should note, that the table was in fact a workbench, set up
for lecturing, and other forms of presenting. Sorry, it is a personal thing that I don't expect you to
understand, but in my line of work, it is important. Anyway, the other picture taker was trying to get
interests in his way of delivering. It was bad style, instead of getting details from the faces, he was
trying to feign interest in shots that didn't look deeply into faces. And it is the faces which are
important. That isn't to say, that some picture takers do not use Birdseye and other such frames, but in
the end, they capture what is important. And that is faces.
So while I am talking to you about all of the details, I'm also working to capture what it is is
going on. As I said before, most people fit in to neat boxes, based on their interest. Which is why I take
some of those pictures, but what I am really getting at, is the two or three characters who don't fit in to
these slots.
Snap.
One of these was a tall thin, and I mean unusually thin, people whose dress made him out to be
one of those perpetually student types. He was wearing blue jeans and a button down shirt, which was
about five years out of date. And not trendy in its own way. He also had in the pocket, a level of detail
which only a few of us with notice. He had a pocket protector, with at least four pens in it. That meant
he was not the first time to such a meeting. It meant that he was examining the lecturer from his own
vantage point. The sure was calico in nature, which was also unusual. He was also not engaging the
lecturer, but intentionally studying the people who were sidling up to him. And he was judging them.
Though by what means, I couldn't say.
Snap.
Another one of the non-pigeonholed sort was an old woman, which was very odd to be
unattached, it meant that she was examining what it was the lecture was doing. She was also thin,
though not in the way which was creepily thin. She had a dress that was light blue in nature, It was
basically a slip dress, which closely mimicked a petticoat. If the young man was 10 years out of date,
and basically square, the old woman was hopelessly out of date in whatever time you could place her
in.
Of course this is what attracted me to them, they were the odd sort out of the main characters.
Like me, like the other picture taker, they were the odd sort of the batch of attendees. And I wanted to
know why they were there.
And now there six.
The last couple to go was the other picture taker, and a sweet little number whom was looking
for someone, and founded in the picture taker. I actually knew the other person with a camera, I had
seen him down on the other side of BU, taking pictures of Sagent College. Part of the vast enterprise
that was left behind by Silber, nicknamed Silberia by some old enemies of his, from many years ago.
Now of course it was a different place, because in its time under several successive leaders it wasn't
about making John money. It changes place, when it really is institution of higher learning, rather than
a playground for one man to make money. Anyway he was shooting things with a model who was not
right for the scene, but I imagine, he was trying to get her into bed. She was wearing a bright red skirt
and a top which was black and white. She of course, was not having any plans on getting to bed with

him, but was trying to wheedle some more gigs with him. It was a back and forwards tail which I
remembered very well, back when I was in lust with getting models in bed, rather than now, which was
taking faces.
I remember the day when capturing faces became my obsession, when there was something
about the face which captured my imagination. Than I looked back, and saw faces in pictures which I
had learned to love. The great depression era where the woman stares out into the beyond, wondering if
this will be the end. The picture from the Vietnam war which had a girl, not yet a woman, screaming in
pain as she went naked into the beyond. Each picture that I could remember was haunted in mind
memory, and I want to capture at least one film which would have one of those things staring back at
the viewer. He, on the other hand, was part of the grand game of photographer and photographee,
where she would capture his fancy by a look which was part face, part leg Shimmering upwards to a
movement under the skirt, part bosom opening just a hint, part accentuated broad in one hand, and on
the other hand closed in around itself. And on the side, was a man trying to capture all of this, and make
it his own, pressing itself to his flesh, and yet retaining that trial of beauty that attracted him.
So he can go and seek body part to nestle up with. I mean that with sincerity, because the other
shooter is a good photographer. But it's a way, for him, and for many others, of getting something else
that he wants. It isn't a means for itself. By itself. For itself. It wasn't the deal and end-all of his life.
Which is one way of saying, all of the great photographers were searching for something, not
necessarily faces, which when captured would stand out from all of the other photography that is made.
There wasn't a good place to stand, where as before he was up by the whiteboard, and basically
lecturing to on audience, now he was bent over the table, lecturing to a few of his devoted students. As
I predicted the thin young man and bright faced woman were among them, as were that cluster of
younger students who wanted to capture the deep essences of what the lecturer was trying to say. To
drink deeply of the entrails of memory which the lecturer came to this place to divulge only to the most
urgent of the maddening crowd. And from what I could see, they were getting there monies worth. I, an
outsider, was simply capturing what he and they were doing. A simple observer in this tte--tte.
Because I was reporting back to an interested observer, who was in the frame of my camera, though
most of them would not suspect that there were observers who would not be here. The lecturer new, I
could see it on the eyebrow when he would catch my eye and strike a pose for whatever listener I
carried with me. How he knew, would be interesting, but I'm not the one to tell that particular tale.
And with this introduction, he do out a pen, and began to mark it with the lazy series of
squiggles that were his minds eye.
First he drew a long line, and said something which was odd:
Now from before writing, when there was speaking, a man would divide interference. He
stopped for a moment to let that sink in. even I could recognize that the next movement would be to
introduce writing.
Then man began to introduce writing to his arsenal of noetics tricks, and it was in many small
details that writing became different from speaking. First of all, he could no longer define things as one
continuous flow, pausing and pronouncing by rhythm which was in his voice. there was a certain kind
of cadence which he no doubt could sense from the various learners that they had a problem
understanding, but he wasn't going to slow down for these people. The must have known that they
would figure it out on the around, or they were to stupid for him to bother with.
So with writing he began to break in to words and phrases, like so. and he began to give lines
meaning on the page, so that they would be sentences. at first he did not use words, because it did not
occur to him, to group words into discrete sentences. Instead he ran the words together like so. And he
wrote a sentence with out any spaces whatsoever. It was hard for anyone of us to figure out, but it was
intelligible when we got the hang of it. I took a picture of this, because that would be important for
understanding what he was doing.
Note that the line goes both left and right, the ancient man had not figured out that one way

would be better, even if it is a largely arbitrary choice, as to move up or left or right, there are good
reasons to reject going bottom to top however. it was obvious, to me as an outsider, that he would
interject something which was obvious to him, but hid a great deal of argument, which he would supply
if needed. Then he looked up at his followers, and then went back to explaining his larger picture.
Then, outside around the world, a series of breakthroughs, unheralded by most of us who were
not aware they were even ideas, emerged. First of all writing became in one direction, even if in the
same society it might be into directions at once depending on if it was produce or poetry. And in those
cultures which depend on breaking words in two discrete symbols, the idea which grouping symbols
into words also began to take shape. it was here that he defined words in groupings, the way we do
today.
... and largely, though there were several filigrees after that, the main thrust of writing was
born. He wrote in Russian something I did not understand, but one person did. and thus was born
writing, though many writings continue to use ideogram rather than each picture, or pair of pictures.
one of the students was Chinese or Japanese, though I cannot tell the difference I know people who
claim that there are as many differences between them as between Europeans.
For example classical Chinese uses ideograms? there was a distinct question mark at the end
of this sentence. It was obvious that he was born here, so was use to people whose native language was
not English, though his was.
Yes, Chinese is the major language which does not use pictograms, but ideas as its base.
The remainder looked in to his ornate writing style, and tried to capture what he was doing. I
could tell, though I knew not for what, that this was the first third of his lecture.
It click cross my mind's view, though it wasn't welcome here. The firm and rounded view from
the back of the ladies hips, so firm that it was a signal to the loins of the inner firmness that was singing
in my groin. I couldn't help it, and must admit that while I was going to treat the neurons of my brain,
the other photographer probably was going to urge more basic needs. Why did you have this vision?
Why did it pop into my skull? It wasn't as if the other photographer was anything rather special, I knew
that she wanted something else from, which she would ply her various wares to, only shedding clothes
here she had to. But the image of them together treading lightly of the ramp, with him with his lightly
balding head, though he was just over 30, send me in to ecstasies. It was not for him, though he was
holding his own in terms of looks, and I had to admit he was attractive in that ordinary way.
Why did it matter? It was not that I was terribly good looking. And I have a paunch to me on
my middle section, which could not be said for my arrival. I have to admit that in the field of
photographers, I came in second in a field of two. But we were incidental to the beauty, plain though
was compared to really stellar looks from a real model, it was that he had made a choice to compete,
even one night in bed, then mastering the intricacies of the lecturers argument. So what I grasped, is he
didn't need to, and I did, that is, I had to grasp the argument, and he did not. And that was the difference
between him, with his close cropped hair and enormous beard, and me. In other words, he was at his
leisure, while I was still on the clock.
This shook me down, And I pretend to read closed the film in to it's nice neat inner packages,
wrapped in black with gray caps. It was a ritual which disguised my inner thoughts going to a private
place. And I was again snapping pictures. As if nothing had happened inside my head. But I will admit
seeing the hips more than once, cloying me to a fragile state, writhing in ecstasy. I could not help
myself.
But I realized that I had to get back to work, fortunately, there were questions between the
lecture and the Oriental boy that were just masking time. And the other attendees want to get beyond
these questions. It was obvious to me, and everyone else, that we needed to break free and loose our
minds on the second third of his lecture.
So, we now get to mathematics, which is a different style of writing. It is so because it has a
new feature to it. This new feature is that it has a certain resonance to it that was not needed for

Reading other prose or poetry. This was to capture and inner resonance between terms which had
bubbled under the surface, at least as far back as the Ptolemies. Because it was in the elements of
Euclid that the first glimpse of this is formed. he was confusing me with his approach. But out of the
corner of my eyes, I could see at least a few of the team of attendees had certainly gotten what he
meant.
If we take mathematics as its base, the key thing is that there is a deep connection between
terms, and that connection yields to a deeper understanding of what the terms of debate are. the
lecture, with his stout ruddy form, almost orgasm in what he was saying. This was unusual, even for the
terms of this debate, or any debate that I had seen the look of in many years. I certainly hope that the
person who had sent me was getting his money's worth, because if I had wandered in to this
establishment, I certainly would have walked away at this moment. From the designs he was drawing, I
could see that there was some purpose, but, seriously, this was to my eyes, not worth the while that he
was putting in to it. But the other attendees were gripped by his nature, so clearly, there was some hold
over his audience. I would submit this to my handler, and let him decide what to make of it.
Finally, we get real drafting, first as a note, but then finally has an independent form. By the
opening of the 18th-century, it encompasses a fully formed art, which most people do not understand. It
is solely for specialists, who make different variations, to suit their needs. The un specialist knows
about cartoons, while there are specialties, for example cartographers, engineers, among others. I
would note here drawings and soon pictures made of real life, but I will note that in my own way.
It would not be fair to allow something to be not said, when making observations from the point
of view, such as myself. Not when it would be relevant to the conversation.
But he went on, then with the 19th century there came the picture of, and life itself began to
make an appearance, even though pseudo-life had already made a showing in the 19 century. You will
note that fillagrees had been introduced to drawings, even though they served no appreciable purpose,
other than then to describe a third dimension that was undecided. at this point he traced in bushes on
his drawing of a locomotive, which served no purpose other than to define something that was outside
of the drawings point of view.
One suppose that maybe it was important, because he had seen my objection, without taking
notice of me at all. But once his accidental, could just be once. But I would see if he was going to meet
other objections, silent though they may be, which I would form. It would be a guessing game with me,
toAs to put them away I will use them match wits with a superior intellect, but who I felt inferior in the
street smarts, that I could bring to the table. And trust me, you could get by with them as easily as with
gray matter between your skulls.
I did not realize it at first, but that was the point where a challenge developed between him and
I. I did not realize it, because in my minds eye I was just reporting. And he thought he was above all of
us, may be deign the world to try to grudge him a kind of respect. But, looking back on it, he and I
were an from this moment onwards.
What I did notice, was that I did not take a picture for a very long time. And that was a sign. I
also realized I was not listening to his argument though I should have listened very closely. And that to
was an important sign. Though I did not realize for a very long time. It just wasn't part of the story, in
fact it was largely irrelevant to what was going on.
Then I got back to listening to his argument, though I admit, I was confused to be in mid
thought on his argument. I realized that the first part was the creation of writing out of speaking, and
then the second part was the creation of two dimensions, but I wasn't quite sure where he was going.
Even though I had heard the wider lecture first. It was as if I were listening to a lecture at the college
graduate level, after having skimmed through a high school introductory class. And thus I would be lost
for a few minutes, getting my bearings.
But in my gut, I was working out my true objective, which was not about the history of writing
in two other things, but a more personal kind of conflict, between, on the one hand, the lecture with his

logical mind, and me on the other hand, with a keenly felt sense of cunning.
And we would see which was the better of the two. Of course, this was on a very subconscious
level, because I thought, at the time, I was still observing and reporting my findings to a man who
would remain anonymous. Even shadowy so. Because in my conscious mind I was still just a reporter.
As I said, I miss large amounts of his development, but I knew it wasn't entirely relevant to
what he was going to say that was new. All of what he said to this point was entirely back story, and if I
did not know it, I would return to someone who would. And that was enough for me, because I was
bollixed out on something that had different meaning. No, it wasn't on the meaning that I was engaged
in, but something more primal, something more base. Look at his features, and you'll find a deep
loathing for the rest of the human race, and I want to be the one who, for a moment at least, would wipe
that from my mind. Moreover, I wanted everyone else to know that I had. It wasn't about knowledge; it
was about dominance.
Then I realized I had not taken a picture in quite some time, and then looked up at the
assembled company to gauge whether he had been making any progress in communicating to the
students. This was both professional; since I would communicate this to whom had sent me; and
personal; because if he had not been making such progress, it would have meant that he would have
gained pity, and no longer be in a man worthy of my indulgence. And, in truth, there was an itchingly
close feeling that I had gotten up to high on my horse. A trace of my mind even said the lecture isn't
that bad.
But that was an illusion, because while I did not comprehend all that you was saying, every
single one of his attendees was at least trying to hold on to what was saying. Which meant that the
troubles before my mind were illusions. Looking at the attendees, and seeing at least the attempt to
understand, meant there was some meaning to his words, which checked with my own understanding.
Most of them were fresh faces, and eager to learn.
With renewed dedication to my professional art, I listened closely to what he had to say, in this
the third chapter of his lecture. I felt that this would be some sort of climax, and later discussion would
be exegesis, a rehashing of what had already been foretold. From my point view, I could leave at this
point. After all, there would be nothing left said that was not already said earlier. And it wasn't as if it
was all that difficult.
A very belated snap. Though I did not know it at the time, it was the second to the last one
which I took.
Now we get to my contribution to the situation. We have gone from speaking, which uses a
form of speech to break up a line, in two a structure. You can think of this as a line that has a little bit of
structure, and that means that it is not one-dimensional, but a little bit more, but very far from twodimensional. Then we discussed writing, which was again less than two dimensional, but more than
speaking. Then we talked about equations, and other forms of written communication. Notice that each
level built on top of writing. And once the revolutions of writing were ingrained, largely they stood in
place and formed the basis of communication.
This had been said for, but it was good to see transitions in the lecturers speaking, it said that he
had polished things to a degree that only professional speakers used.And trust me, I had been to several
which needed more polish, for example one on the later, prose, works of TS Eliot, which had been held
at a bar on Arlington Street, and while the author was smart, he didn't use the time to get his thoughts in
order. And it showed, because about midway his audience started to drift away. It may not seem like it
but there is a structure to these kinds of things.
...what this means, is that we can use the Internet for a new form of written communication,
which is new, and completely updated for the contemporary universe. And it will have features that
have come. This had been said during his lecture, it was obviously a canned speech.
There was a hesitation, as if he was about to pronounce the most important thing he would say,
and each one of his listeners leaned a little bit closer to what he was saying. I, however, leaned out to

see all of them, including the two who I would talk to.
What we need is four dimensional writing, with the fifth dimension of time. this landed like a
dud, none of them understood it at all, though now the head spoken words twice. One in the popular
language cast out to at least 200 people, and one in a more complex style of approach to only a few
who were listening. I even turned away and punched in a phone number, which said I was coming
home.
But then a miracle happened. There was a question, and it appeared from one of the listeners.
I know you have said this in the general presentation, and I don't think anyone really knows
what you mean by this. Could you explain further, because I want to what you are talked about,
because you feel you have to explain it, at least twice, in this presentation.
Then the lecture created a second miracle, he changed his stance from a lecturer, to more of a
conspirator, ready to reveal miracles, even if it took some time to explain. He, obviously, had all the
time in the world to do so, this is his passion in life. And we all saw the brightness in him glow. It was
clear that this nexus was his life's passion, that which he lived for, and to some extent, on as well.
You do not know how many times I have stood up here and listened very hard for even one
person to ask that question. His voice was jovial, and in a sense he came off the mountaintop
preaching to a choir, which he did not know if it was there. Instead, he was still a teacher, but among a
group of friends. And everyone knew this to be the case, though different actors respond differently to
the change.
Spreading out his hands, and opening them with hands upwards to the sky, almost as if a sense
of absolution flew from his outstretched hands.
We must instead base the complexities of language in its written form on the present, as
opposed to in the deep-seated past. Said of writing as the Egyptians, or Ur, or the ancient Chinese, or
the Mayans did. Our writing must be based on the element of now.
This than, was his revelation, to write in a form which had the elements as they are presented to
us. It also meant something more personal to me: I was the heir to the deep past, and he was the mark
of the future. In a sense, I was going to smite a deep impression, and mark him as Cain, so offensive
was his blasphemy. Words and pictures were to different things, and I was to convey that.
But in the lecture room, there was a buzz of conversation, which told me, the lecture had found
friends, and their questions were different. He was now talking to a different group of people then he
had started out with. Even the mark of a question was different, with hands emphasized and projecting
nuances that could not be explained with just words. He noted this as well, speaking was not the only
thing that mattered. He was among friends, and I was currently the devil. And if I was the devil, I
would make the most of it.
But there was one more kick left in its stomach.
He began drawing what looked like Chinese characters, but I did not recognize any of them,
even though I knew some scraps of the language. Then be to some which were larger, and some that
were smaller. He also drew some lines indicating that was a distance between the languages not just
left, for up-and-down, but also characters which were in the foreground, and which were in the
background. But I didn't understand what these had to do with each other. It was, as Churchill said, an
enigma inside of a mystery, or something like that. I do not remember the exact line.
The lecturer, with his not entirely grotesque jowl, stood up to his exacting height, and he was
lecturing, not conversing. It was a subtle difference but there it was. At that point I knew I had to take a
photograph of him, and it had to be lowered down. There had to be some exaggeration to his form. So I
got down to floor, breaking the rule about being natural. There are times when you have to break the
rule to honor it. And there from below I capture him with a light blue and white shirt, which was a few
years out of date. But it made the point that this man was passionate about what he spoke of.
Snap.

I could do this, my job, at the same time I was going through my mind as to how to subvert him
on a personal level. I did not see anything wrong between the professional and personal.
... In this way we can commit to a program, which will be the writing of the future. It will not
be just a folded up one dimensional work, nor even two dimensional, but three-dimensional plus the
aspect of time as well. Now I really must be leaving, I have stayed for two long. Catch me at my next
lecture, in three months time. Feel free to take one of my cards.
And just like that, with no more ceremony, he plopped his notes and retreated to leaving the
scene of the crime. It was an abrupt ending, even for those of us who had seen abrupt endings. I started
in mind, because there was something odd about it. Then I glanced upwards through the room, and saw
the other photographer. I did not expect to see him again, but there he was. Clearly, there were two
things I had to do, I needed to meet with the tall thin man and older woman, and, warm speak to the
other picture taker, because he was clearly more important than I thought. But I did not know how.
So in a stroke, I got to cards in my left hand, and deposited them with the younger thin man and
older woman, and with my right hand disassembled my camera, and went up to me the other
photographer. If someone had been watching me, he would ever seen these two motions in tandem, I
was that good, if I do say so myself.
Now, you have to understand the lecture room was slanted, and ran up from where people
present, with three whiteboards behind them, and exited both below - where the figures could remove
themselves - and upstairs where the people who watched would leave. I basically had to scramble,
because the other photographer had turned around to leave. And if I wanted to talk to him, it would be
my onus to speak to him. So taking huge leaps to get up to him, I was, at a bound, gently rapping on his
shoulder, and awaiting a reply. He turned and looked at me, with rather more respect then was usual.
Clearly he had recognized me, and thought I would engage him. In fact, he was surprised that I had not
engaged in earlier. Which was odd, or at least prescient, in its clarity of thought. There was more to the
other photographer then met the eye.
I gathered up my thoughts, and began:
What did you think of our lecturer?
You didn't rush over to me to ask that question.
No, I hadn't. But what mildly surprised me, was that he would say so.It was a way of saying that
photographer was not his usual role, in short, he was under cover. A photographer would begin by
talking about the presence on film, or the animation which he displayed on camera. Or something like
one of the skills which he displayed. Clearly, he wasn't even going to make nice with such
blandishments.
What kind of question did you expect? Your clearly not a photographer as your first choice of
work.
I am First Lieut. Stevens, I'm in the regular military.
He did not look regular military, but then I was once military, not all that long ago. Perhaps, no
definitely, he realized that. There was a fraternity of serving or inactive military, and clearly Stevens
read the signs, which I was rather prone to forgetting.
Since your in the military, it's obvious the lecture has drawn interest.
You could say that.
And since your not in uniform, it must be covert.
Not covert, but we don't wish to display our interest quite yet.
That's interesting. What can you tell me, on the record, about why this is important.
You will have to talk to the person who sent you. Which, unless I miss my guess, is also a
person of interest.
Clearly, Lieut. Stevens, or whatever his name was, had been briefed. And while I wasn't going
to confirm or deny his suspicions, it was obviously a very clear briefing.That meant the lecture was a

person of interest. It also made sense that his head was shaved short, and his beard wasn't real. Now
that I looked at it, the beard was the same color as the rest of his face, which would not be natural on
most Caucasian men.
He started away, brushing off any more questions. Perhaps he felt that the questions he had
answered were to much to say, and he was excusing himself from any more.
I looked back around to whether the thin man and older woman were well there, but there was
no such luck. They had obviously exited through the front, which left me standing there. The only thing
for me to do was to upload my pictures, and send in a report.
Then I realized that the word report was Army jargon, and I was being
absorbed back in two the military culture. And it wasn't pleasant. And also meant
that I had some questions for my employer.
I did not go out the enormous front door on Massachusetts Avenue, beneath
the doors that opened up in to a very large dome- number 77 it was called.
Instead I went out the opposite way which was almost a quarter of a mile distant
in the other direction. I came out through a maze like building - which was entirely
new on its face, a product of the arms race to build higher buildings. I was spat
out on the Kendal side of the equation, before and enormous square which had a
myriad of new buildings, and open space between some of them. I didn't know
what message was being sent to the world, but it was only 30 years, or so, that it
had been directed from out of a dingy morass of buildings which dated before the
war, that is the Second World War, not Vietnam. Or Iraq-Afghanistan War. Though
some people think of it as two Wars, and supported Bush when he was popular as opposed to the end of the conflict.
The sky was dappled with low hanging clouds, but above them you could see
the stars. It was summer, and there was a hazy darkness - sticking to the
enormous deep River. It was then that I noticed that enormous was in my brain,
though I didn't know why. Peeling my eyes from the cold darkness above, to the
litter of street signs and buildings, I noticed to figures which were present along
the boulevard, namely, the tall skinny man, and the older blonde woman, who I
didn't think I would see again. Waving to them with my hand, and breaking to a
little bit of a gallop, I tried to get their attention.
And succeed I did, it was the tall, skinny man who noticed me first, but it was
the older woman who placed my face, and remembered me as one of the two
photographers. They both turned around and came towards me, each one of them
making some signs to the other, which I could not make out. But clearly they had
noticed me from the lecture, but that is not surprising, because I was one of the
two taking pictures of what had been happening.
I came up to them beside a small inn, which was labeled Kendall after the
namesake. On the other side of the Boulevard was a tremendously large structure,
containing a large inn, which was labeled after a franchise. It was an extreme form
of residence, be small inn gripping on to life as if it depended on it. And in the
background, there were large structures unrelated to the inn.
Hello. I declared, neutrally, since I had been made aware that I was to
talkative in my nature.
Hello, how are you this evening. He had a different accent, he was not from
around here. What can we do for you?
I was wondering why you were in the lecture, since you didn't fit the normal
categories for it. I was cautious, but also curious at the same time.

That is true. Replied the older woman. We thought it was strange that a
man who disappeared five years ago, would suddenly turn up, and talking about
something very unusual, and not in his normal way.
So you know who he is?
Most decidedly so. replied the man. I didn't hear your name. You can call
me Bradley.
And you can refer to me as Sherry. I noticed that neither of them had
supplied a second name, which is a unusual, but it bothered me a great deal.
So I specifically gave my name, first and last parts. Unlike either Bradley or
Sherry, I was crisp and clean with both halves of my name. But what I did not do
was roll out a new can of film to take their picture. I had a couple of shots left, but
neither did I want to take a shot of the two together, nor did I want to tell them
that I had a shot left. Their was something in my gut which told me that I did not
want to tell either my employer that I ran into someone, nor tell the two of them
that I had shots left. The growling heat in my gut was specific on this. I did not
want to tell anyone about this conversation if I could help it.
Instead, I took out a little notepad, and a nub of a pencil, and ready to copy
things that no one would read. I did this because I did not want either Bradley or
Sherry to know that they are words would not reach my benefactor, that in fact
my casual employer did not exactly call the shots, and did not know he had editor
which was reaching down and selectively editing his copy. Because these two
people had exactly the sort of things to say which might trigger the higher power.
So what are you working for, a paper? and copied diligently the reply, has if
someone were going to it.
Not exactly a paper. no. said Sherry. But that was a non-apology. It did not
tell me what either of them was working for, and I spun my pencil, it was Bradley
which noticed I was still waiting for an answer. Which he supplied, rather much
unhelpfully.
We are supplying copy to a relatively small site. and he would let it go at
that, if I had not prompted for the name of the site, which he supplied. Normally, I
would jousted, because under normal circumstances, I would be very interested in
who I was talking to. But now I wasn't.
So what is your take on the proceedings? Was my reply.
Last time he appeared, while he mentioned some of the same background,
he was not in any way concerned with writing in the style which he was so
passionate tonight. Which is very odd, and I think novel. of course this was
Bradley.
I didn't know he had a following, or anything like that.
Yes he did, but it was on Kurt Gdel, but he was normally just about the life
and times of the man. Without any interpretation at all.
I wrote this down, though in my mind, there were many things which
competed for my attention.
Why is that important to you?
Gdel is one of the important thinkers of the 20th century.
How so?
He was the man who explained, that either logic was finite, or that it was
infinite, but then it had three values. Which is at the root of the lecturers point
that writing should have three values, not two add its core. It is a running theme,

though you may not have noticed.

Actually, that was precisely why I was sent.
And precisely why no record of this conversation would in any way be written
down for posterity. Though I would remember this conversation took place, I would
not remember any of the details, and I would not have taken any store that it's
whereabouts were important to me. Because my cover has a photographer would
hold. And that was truly important, because the cover was important to my real
employer.
I stopped, and extracted from my inner pocket, on the right front half of my
shirt a single cigarette of the kind which most people trying to quit smoking
smoke. I was trying to quit for at least seven years, and had not quite will to really
quit smoking, as in really two quick. I might go a day without smoking, but in the
end I would go in to a convenience store, around here there was an unspoken
agreement that pharmacies not carry, at the time, any more cigarettes. They
bowed to the pressure of moms and young people, mores the pity.
While lighting the cigarette and enjoying the smooth taste of the menthol
flavor, which I had grown accustomed to from the African-American who got me
hooked, I had to ask:
You to do look like a eggheads, what made you find out about Gdel?
A friend explained how to Gdel, led to Turing, which we had seen a movie
about. It's called 'Codebreaker' and while it stars someone who is more good
looking then Turing actually was - it is a good summary of how his homosexuality
brought him to ruin, even though everyone admitted he was brilliant, even a
genius. This was Bradley again.
Then Sherry piped up - it shows the humanity of the man, as well as the
genius. It intimates that fell in love, though he could not suggest this, with a
friend. And though that friend never knew, let alone reciprocated, he carried a
torch until the end of his woefully short life.
At this point I interjected : What does this have to do with anything?
When people want to understand computers and cell phones, they want to
know about how these things came to be, and that means that they have to
understand Gdel and Turing, and all of the later things which built on the basic
architecture that they laid out.
So you think they were human and not just a genius in some abstract sense
of the word?
Sherry responded: Don't you want to know how this came to be? After all,
when you look at the world in the beginning of the 1950s, the computer and the
cell phone are the primary differences. As opposed to between 1900, which saw
great strides in many fields. in that she was correct: the second have of the 20 th
century was stable, as opposed to the first half, which was volatile. To say the
least.
This made a problem: I was not just going to report on the lecturer. This was
the directive from my real employer. But it was obvious that this was not going to
work, because the lecturer had communicated to bright, but not extraordinarily
so, the intuition that Gdel, and Turing, were actually important people. Which
was partly what I was there to stamp down.
My employers, wanted it that way. And I was only two happy to comply,
because at the root of the problem was the notion that there were three and not

two truths. And what we want was that the third was the mystical, and therefore
worship under God. Not something that could truly be known, which Gdel, and
Turing, wanted to make explicit. Which would not do at all. Not from my
employers, and, to put the bluntly, not from me either.
You may call me what you like, but I grew up to worship God and country,
first and foremost in the reign of heaven. Because wall I talked like a New
Englander, I never lost sight of Who the deity was, that is to say God. And while
these two might worship a thing that they called God, there was something
wrong with their conception. This would mean I would have to talk with my
employer.
But meanwhile, I had to know exactly what they thought of the situation,
because clearly a report would have to be in order. Clear, deliberate, concise.
It was always the way.
But I needed to know if they were serious, and whether or not they truly
understood, or whether it was just a game to them. But looking at their faces, I
could see that it was not truly a game to either one of them. It was almost as if it
was a smell more than anything else. A wreak which pungently declared the reek
and utter of its own device. But hidden by layers that would make anyone else
wonder what it was. But I knew from the beginning, I didn't however no what it
was, precisely. Now I knew, it wasn't the sent of true believers, but it was close.
And what do you believe? Interjected Sherry.
I did what any operative would do: I lied. I'm just here to report on the
goings on. It will be my editors decision as to whether or not the story will run, in
the Metro section, specifically in the Boston/Cambridge.
Right in the heart, so to speak. Replied Bradley.
Yes. I replied firmly. This was an easy route to play. And I didn't think there
would be any problem, because I was only getting information from them, not
anything else. The flow of pencil on paper helped back up my story. It was a
continuous, even, relentless punctuation to my story. It also sooth the nerves of
the pair of them, wafting endlessly to sleep, drifting ever deeper to slumber, until,
I felt, there was no reason to believe that I was anything but what I said I was.
Then I made up the story that I had to write out the story, in time to send it
away to the editor. And turned on my heels, and walked back to Kendall station.
Dropping down and in, knowing that once I was down there, they would not have
a chance to respond. Of course they could call up the globe, or the Herald, and
that would show I was a liar. But my objective would be accomplished long for
them. What it was I would in fact be learning from the employer, but first of all
there would be time to talk with the individual who thought I was working for. That
is to say, the man who do not know that I had another employer.
Of course I needed to get my story straight for him, only a few details would
suffice. I got on the outbound train for Harvard, and rehearsed what I was going to
say to him, and then again. By the time I was getting off at Harvard, my story was
tightly sealed.
I got off towards the farther end, because the bend in Harvard went 90 or
so, from the mid-section of Boston, to the suburbs of Arlington, for the next 2
miles, Harvard went through a transition, from urban, to suburban living in a shot.
I went past the Cambridge Common, where the main campus turned to the Law
School, and moved from Harvard to the ersatz Leslie College. Which was not really

a major university, but hung out with the MIT's and Harvard's of this world. There
was also the renamed music school, which had once been independent, but now
proudly boasted yet a fourth school, which its name seemed out of place. But that
was the way not only with businesses, but colleges as well. I myself, was walking
along a side street, to get to the man who thought I was his for the evening. It
wasn't of course true, but he wouldn't know that.
2
Come in.
The voice was soft, I did not know were I heard that first. Probability in a
novel I read during teenage. I just remembered I did not like it. But it stuck.
However, that did not stop me from clambering up the outside steps, the clouds
were thickening and their was rain coming. And what people do not know, is that
precipitation causes the brain to forgot what it was going to say in terms of a
prevarication. And I did not want to mess up what was already a perfectly formed
lie. I had all that I want to say, and things that I would have said if asked, and
things I would shrug my shoulders at if asked, claiming that they are were details I
had missed. In short, it was more than a lie, but not too much more, which would
stick out, and those form a defect, a lie that was too good by have to be too true. I
had been caught very young by such a lie, by my mother in fact, and then and
there, and ever afterwards, would remember that to good a lie would be as bad as
a badly formed lie to the wrong ears. And my listener was exactly that sort, one
who would know that it was to perfect a lie to be trusted.
So I came in with out a flourish, but also with out talking until he did. This
meant that there was silence up the first story, and then he spoke:
I imagine that there was a great deal to talk about. What did you find out
during this evening's missive? I'm sure there was quite a bit to recount, and relate
that to me. As well as any impressions you might have gleaned, about either the
person holding the lecture, or by members of the community. Since I don't
remember MIT very well, you'll have to fill me in on where the lecture was held.
In Cambridge there were people who knew Harvard, those who knew MIT,
and those who knew nothing, and were unwilling to learn details about the
colleges. There were also a few who were at colleges not related to Harvard or
MIT, but they were close to Harvard, and to my experience, they could be grouped
in two the Harvard group. It should also be noted, that there were Harvard people
who were not from Cambridge, such as the Business School, or down at the
Medical School. But these people knew Cambridge well enough to be part of the
larger campus of Harvard. You pick this up rather quickly, and like me, fake it as
need be.
I, of course, made small talk, which didn't need any intervention from my
higher logic centers, merely taking care not to mention anything that might have
been unusual. I knew that the smallest thing could disrupt the pattern which the
lie was to settle in with. It is so delicate when one actually needs to believe a lie
so completely that it must not be even questioned, in that Peter Lorre since of the
word, thinking one thing while doing something else with his mouth.
The room was a combination of living room and eating area, with the kitchen
off to one side, with the bedroom beyond. The walls were strewn with books, both

old and young, some of them dated in to the later part of the 19th century. And on
both of me tables were scattered in number of volumes, both fiction and
nonfiction, which said he had more than one research project at a time, law seem
to be the most frequent topic, with business a close second. The fiction books
were by Ezra Pound, Dante - in the original and to different versions in both
Spanish and English - as well as Joyce and George Orwell's classic Animal Farm.
You have quite a wide reading habits. I remarked while taking a seat on a
wooden chair.
First we must discuss what you saw at the lecture, and the response to it
from the crowd, and most importantly - how many people stayed behind to ask
questions, or offer comments. Was there anyone you knew, either personally, or
by reputation? Please tell me all of the details.
So I began to relate the lecture, first speech, and then writing, and all of the
complications. I then spoke of how letters took over from ideograms. Then finally I
talked about what came after that, while noting that writing retained the same
form, and was common. In short I basically made the lecturers point that writing
remained the same, wall other people used elaborated versions for specialized
uses, and then I put in the pictures were added later, both as drawings and finally
truly pictures. What I did not say, was very simple: first of all I do the mention the
people I had spoken with, and I did not mention how enthusiastic the, very small,
crowd was.
Then I waited to see what my response was. Would it easily slide down and
be digested? Or was there a flaw in it the high did not notice at the time?
Finally, he began:
You are a good liar, and, truthfully, if I had not been on notice, I might have
not noticed your lie of omission. But, unfortunately, I was testing you, and their
were two things wrong. First of all, Bradley and Sherry were both there for me,
and I knew that the other photographer was working for the US military, that is he
was officially on business. Though he did not say that to Most of the people that
he came in contact with. I was alerted to that fact long before I sent you. So can
we dispense with all of the, how should I say? Carry on, if that's the correct word,
and discuss why it is you are working for me, and for other people, whose names I
shall know presently.
It then made me decide, whether or not to come clean, or make up a greater
lie, and defend that relentlessly. There was no sweat on his brow. The smooth
skin, with a touch of that swarthiness that came from South America, was
unbounded, and completely smooth. It was obvious that making up a lie would be
no use at all. I was caught, and I knew it. This had been a game.
Obviously, you knew this from the first.
No, I did not, but I suspected, and then simply let you speak. And that
confirmed all of my worst beliefs. It wasn't exactly pretty, and my heart sank
deeper and deeper, because I do not like lies, even ones which are omission
versus commission. If you will. I won't even ask what made you think that it would
work. Your face was obvious in its working and your eyes gave you away.
I stood there, and then began:
You've caught me, what next?
You seem to think that I would do something to you, which I don't know why
you would. I suppose if this were a Western, we could draw, and see who was

fastest. But this isn't a Western, and if you want to shoot me, you would have to
explain this to my friends. Bradley and Sherry both called of course. I don't know if
the other photographer would do something, but I don't imagine that he would do
nothing. So remain seated, and we can discuss this like reasonable people. I
assume your at least vaguely reasonable. If not then just shoot me, and begin to
run like the devil is trying to catch you, because the devil is about the right
shape.
I stopped, shooting was indeed on my mind, but that was before his two
friends were in the mix. I could not see how this would end, and I very much
doubted that my employers would take kindly, either to the shooting, or the
running away. This last part would, in all probability, expose them to the light of
day. Which would be unpleasant for them. It would take a bit of time, and there
were ways to avoid it, but in all fairness, there would be consequences, even if
they were hushed up.
You have my attention.
Why not go in to an ordinary life? There are plenty of things worth doing
which don't involve shooting, or other such means of getting your aggression out.
Anyway, Afghanistan and Iraq are both feeding into the distance. And while I did
some shooting, it was out the country, and, as a matter of fact, it was an
American that I did.
You seem to take pride in that.
No, in fact I don't. I knew him right here in this town, we were in fact, fellow
students. But ended up twisted, and melancholy. I had to shoot him, because he
was insane. Not that I want to do it. But again, the era of that war is fading
quickly, and soon no one will want to talk about. You would be better of doing
something else. Chinese calligraphy, pottery, those things are more useful than
displaying a ruinous ability to last things.
And what are you going to do? If it is an American that you shoot, there will
be repercussions.
They know where I am, and there is a reason why they do not come out and
get me. That is, they know that was crazy, as well. It wasn't a particular secret.
So that's it? You paid your debt to society?
I should keep you around. Your he only person who makes say no, and then
no again. My debt to society will keep on being paid. Even though, when I came
here, I was disturbed to and my friend was sane. Things then got muddled, and
eventually he was crazy, and I got cured. I don't know what it was, perhaps it was
talking about Guth, and drinking vodka. I don't know. What I do know is that a
friend - a painter no less - was what sent him to despair, and woke me up. But you
had said what you're going to do.
Well, your first impulse was correct: at first I was going to shoot you.
And now, what are you going to do? Since your real employers will not get
off lightly, but they aren't going to get the death penalty, which while the state
doesn't demanded, the federals do. Only they take some bit of time.
I stood there and thought. It was obvious that he had thought about this, and
knew that I was going to shoot, and I had no idea who he had killed. I could find it
out, of course, but I doubted I could prove anything, especially since the
authorities knew. There are a lot of people who killed somebody, but no one could
prove.

So is the lecturer somebody of importance?

I suppose so. What is that to you? What he is doing is very slow and subtle.
Yes, eventually, Gdel and Turing our going to the well-known, and eventually
even take their place at the circle of great thinkers. But neither you nor I will have
anything to do with that. That is a great deal further down then either of us can do
anything about. As I have said before, you should hang up this, and do something
else instead.
It sounds like there is more to his idea than that.
He eventually wants to make it so that shadowy groups of people can relate
things which are not apparent. Like Bitcoin, and things like that. Only if there is to
little, then people can find it. As they did a few years ago.
There must be more than that.
No, actually, there is note. But takes a large number of users to create the
cloud of deceit which enables the few two transmit their information. They need
lots of followers to transmit endless noise, so that there packets are disguised, by
being transmitted among hundreds of other packets which mean nothing.
So what you're saying, is that he is making noise?
Essentially, though I would not be doing it that way, his objective is making
money, and hiding it by having dozens of users making false signals.
It seems like a waste of time.
It would be if they were doing all of the transmitting. But if thousands of
other people are transmitting things which might be real, and you halve to check
them...
Will it work?
I don't know, perhaps it will, you should join a bitcoin experiment. That way
you'll know better than I will. If money is what you want.
It sounds very risky.
Money is always risky. That's why people want it, and die trying to get some
if they don't have enough. Whatever the definition of enough is.
Why don't you chase money then.
Just as I don't want money, there are those forces that will take money that I
earn away from me. Call it retribution, or karma, or whatever else you want to
describe as. Don't get me wrong, I would like to have more money, but those are
not the cards I was dealt.
It seems like your, well I won't say content, but that is close enough to the
right word.
I just know that my life is done when I shot the one person that I had left,
and drove away the other.
How did that happen?
It's not important. I did it to myself.
How?
Their comes a time when you think you want something important. And you
go out for it, and then you achieve it. And then she is gone, like the Wind in the
Willows.
And then she's gone?
Normally takes a little while, with her trying to understand what you did, but
in the end, she leaves a note, and says goodbye, and you are wondering what has
happened.

I looked at him in a different way, and felt truly sorry for him. It was obvious
that he was alone and nothing I could do would change that.
Outside the window I could see that it was raining, quite hard, and what was
the tale was over before I got here. My employers would have to arrange things
without me, and though I did not know what they would do, I was going to be
around to find out. It was more than sad, because he had a bit of wisdom: namely,
their was nothing that I could do except rehashing affairs that did not concern me.
So I left, taking nothing with me.
What surprised me, however, was that Gdel, though he was dense and
unreadable at times, made a simple and yet surprising remark - in every infinite
system there is at least one place where this statement is false crops up. And
even if you take that into account, then it crops up in another place, even though
you have added another postulate. And so around and around it goes, until you
have infinite postulates. At first I didn't believe it, but in the end, there was no
refuting it.
The dizzying array that Gdel left behind would stand even though people
might not want to believe it, and he was just a disciple. A footnote On formally
undecidable propositions of the Principia Mathematica and Related Systems.
Looking back not at all, at the man who admitted that he had nothing left, but
engaging in what might have been, was all that he had left. That -,and his name.
Giorgio.