e at the desk-lamp. "F(t)--I mean, if you counted the kappa waves of my radio-atomic brain now, you'd be amazed how the frequency's increased." He paused thoughtfully. "F(t)," he added.

Moving quite slowly, like a man under water, Martin lifted his glass and drank whiskey. Then, cautiously, he looked up at the robot again.

"F(t)--" he said, paused, shuddered, and drank again. That did it. "I'm drunk," he said with an air of shaken relief. "That must be it. I was almost beginning to believe--"

"Oh, nobody believes I'm a robot at first," the robot said. "You'll notice I showed up in a movie lot, where I wouldn't arouse suspicion. I'll appear to Ivan Vasilovich in an alchemist's lab, and he'll jump to the conclusive I'm an automaton. Which, of course, I am. Then there's a Uighur on my list--I'll appear to him in a shaman's hut and he'll assume I'm a devil. A matter of ecologicologic."

"Then you're a devil?" Martin inquired, seizing on the only plaus

f uraei and cartouches

107. Wall-scene from temple of Denderah

108. Obelisk of Heliopolis, Twelfth Dynasty

109. Obelisk of Begig, Twelfth Dynasty

110. "Table of offerings" from Karnak

111. Limestone altar from Menshîyeh

112. Wooden naos, in Turin Museum

113. A mastaba

114. False door in mastaba

115. Plan of forecourt, mastaba of Kaäpir

116. Plan of forecourt, mastaba of Neferhotep

117. Door in mastaba façade

118. Portico and door of mastaba

119. Plan of chapel, mastaba of Khabiûsokari

120. Plan of chapel, mastaba of Ti

121. Plan of chapel, mastaba of Shepsesptah

122. Plan of chapel, mastaba of Affi

123. Plan of chapel, mastaba of Thenti

124. Plan of chapel, mastaba of Red Scribe

125. Plan of chapel, mastaba of Ptahhotep

126. Stela in mastaba of Merrûka

127. Wall-scene from mastaba of Ptahhotep

128. Wall-scene from mastaba of Ûrkhûû

129. Wall-scene from mastaba of Ptahhotep

130. Plan of serdab in mastaba at Gizeh

131. Plan of serdab and

Radnor frowned slightly.

"He doesn't forgive," he returned.

"What was the trouble with Jeff?" I ventured. "I have never heard any particulars."

"He and my father didn't agree. I don't remember very much about it myself; I was only thirteen when it happened. But I know there was the devil of a row."

"Do you know where he is?" I asked.

Radnor shook his head.

"I sent him some money once or twice, but my father found it out and shut down on my bank account. I've lost track of him lately--he isn't in need of money though. The last I heard he was running a gambling place in Seattle."

"It's a great pity!" I sighed. "He was a fine chap when I knew him."

Radnor echoed my sigh but he did not choose to follow up the subject, and we passed the rest of the way in silence until we turned into the lane that led to Four-Pools. After the manner of many Southern places the house was situated well toward the middle of the large plantation, and entirely out of sight from

all the parts of thewatch to the function, or purpose, of showing the time, is held to beevidence that the watch was specially contrived to that end; on theground, that the only cause we know of, competent to produce such aneffect as a watch which shall keep time, is a contriving intelligenceadapting the means directly to that end.

Suppose, however, that any one had been able to show that the watch hadnot been made directly by any person, but that it was the result ofthe modification of another watch which kept time but poorly; and thatthis again had proceeded from a structure which could hardly be calleda watch at all--seeing that it had no figures on the dial and the handswere rudimentary; and that going back and back in time we came at lastto a revolving barrel as the earliest traceable rudiment of the wholefabric. And imagine that it had been possible to show that all thesechanges had resulted, first, from a tendency of the structure to varyindefinitely; and secondly, from something in

seen him since he left home. I was a child of seven then."

The Texan looked down at the ruffian under his feet.

"Do you know the road to Mexico by the Arivaca cut-off?"

"Yes."

"Then climb into my rig and hit the trail hard-- burn it up till you've crossed the line."

The fellow began to whine thanks, but the man above would have none of them, "I'm giving you this chance for your sister's sake. You won't make anything of it. You're born for meanness and deviltry. I know your kind from El Paso to Dawson. But she's game and she's white clear through, even if she is your sister and a plumb little fool. Can you walk to the road?" he ended abruptly.

"I think so. It's in my ankle. Some hell-hound gave it me while we were getting over the wall," the fellow growled.

"Don't blame him. His intentions were good. He meant to blow out your brains."

The convict cursed vilely, but in the midst of his impotent rage the other stopped and dragged him to his feet.

"Th

It is as it stands now the frank confession of what one man of the early Twentieth Century has found in life and himself, a confession just as frank as the limitations of his character permit; it is his metaphysics, his religion, his moral standards, his uncertainties and the expedients with which he has met them. On every one of these departments and aspects I write--how shall I put it?--as an amateur. In every section of my subject there are men not only of far greater intellectual power and energy than I, but who have devoted their whole lives to the sustained analysis of this or that among the questions I discuss, and there is a literature so enormous in the aggregate that only a specialist scholar could hope to know it. I have not been unmindful of these professors and this literature; I have taken such opportunities as I have found, to test my propositions by them. But I feel that such apology as one makes for amateurishness in this field has a lesser quality of self-condemnation than if one were dealing with narrower, more defined and fact-laden matters. There is more excuse for one here than for the amateur maker of chemical theories, or the man who evolves a system of surgery in his leisure. These things, chemistry, surgery and so forth, we may take on the reputation of an expert, but our own fundamental beliefs, our rules of conduct, we must all make for ourselves. We may listen and read, but the views of others we cannot take on credit; we must rethink them and "make them our own." And we cannot do without fundamental beliefs, explicit or implicit. The bulk of men are obliged to be amateur philosophers,--all men indeed who are not specialized students of philosophical subjects,--even if their philosophical enterprise goes no further than prompt recognition of and submission to Authority.

ere Tom Wolfe to have written it as a non-fiction title. That it was inspired by actual characters and events, and turned by Wolfe's expert hands into a compelling modern-day tale of murder and mortality, were enough to convince me that I could pull off the same sort of magic with my own "what if" scenario, swapping Silicon Valley for New York, and the personal computer business for bond trading.

That this was my first attempt at writing a novel goes a long way toward explaining the earliest rejections of the work, then titled "Silicon Dreams," by editors unlucky enough to have had it land with a thud on their desks. Somehow I'd lost sight of Mr. Wolfe's excellent illustration and found myself mimicking, all at once, the likes of Sidney Sheldon, Arthur Hailey, Jackie Collins, and, believe it or not, Stephen King (who happens to be my favorite mainstream read). With so many influences at play in the already befuddled head of an aspiring young writer with dreams of hitting the number one spot on all of t

ere mounted sculls and oars, footballs and baseballs. The long and proud record of the university was there to be read. All her famous athletes were pictured there, and every one who had fought for his college. Ken realized that here for the first time he was in the atmosphere of college spirit for which the university was famed. What would he not have given for a permanent place in that gallery! But it was too late. He had humiliated the captain of the baseball team. Ken sought out the picture of the last season's varsity. What a stocky lot of young chaps, all consciously proud of the big letter on their shirts! Dale, the captain and pitcher, was in the centre of the group. Ken knew his record, and it was a splendid one. Ken took another look at Dale, another at the famous trainer, Murray, and the professional coach, Arthurs--men under whom it had been his dream to play--and then he left the room, broken-hearted.

When the Christmas recess was over he went back to his lectures resigned to the thought t

have mentioned. One of these was, the prospect of his succeedingto an old lady, a distant relation, who was known to be possessed ofa very large sum in the stocks: but in this their hopes weredisappointed; for the young man was so untoward in his disposition,that, notwithstanding the instructions he daily received, his visitsrather tended to alienate than gain the good-will of his kinswoman.He sometimes looked grave when the old lady told the jokes of heryouth; he often refused to eat when she pressed him, and was seldomor never provided with sugar-candy or liquorice when she was seizedwith a fit of coughing: nay, he had once the rudeness to fallasleep while she was describing the composition and virtues of herfavourite cholic-water. In short, be accommodated himself so ill toher humour, that she died, and did not leave him a farthing.

The other method pointed out to him was an endeavour to get a leaseof some crown-lands, which lay contiguous to his little paternalestate. This, it was im

lulled Mr. Cobb's never active mind into completeoblivion as to his promise of keeping an eye onRebecca.

Suddenly he heard a small voice above the rattleand rumble of the wheels and the creaking of theharness. At first he thought it was a cricket, a treetoad, or a bird, but having determined the directionfrom which it came, he turned his head over hisshoulder and saw a small shape hanging as far outof the window as safety would allow. A long blackbraid of hair swung with the motion of the coach;the child held her hat in one hand and with theother made ineffectual attempts to stab the driverwith her microscopic sunshade.

"Please let me speak!" she called.

Mr. Cobb drew up the horses obediently.

"Does it cost any more to ride up there withyou?" she asked. "It's so slippery and shiny downhere, and the stage is so much too big for me, thatI rattle round in it till I'm 'most black and blue.And the windows are so small I can only see piecesof things, and I've 'most broken my neck stretc