Genre Short Story. Page - 17

s a new and a miraculous revelation superseding the old revelation of fifteen hundred years ago, when Thou didst so repeatedly tell the people: "The truth shall make you free." Behold then, Thy "free" people now!' adds the old man with sombre irony. 'Yea!... it has cost us dearly.' he continues, sternly looking at his victim. 'But we have at last accomplished our task, and--in Thy name.... For fifteen long centuries we had to toil and suffer owing to that "freedom": but now we have prevailed and our work is done, and well and strongly it is done. ....Believest not Thou it is so very strong? ... And why should Thou look at me so meekly as if I were not worthy even of Thy indignation?... Know then, that now, and only now, Thy people feel fully sure and satisfied of their freedom; and that only since they have themselves and of their own free will delivered that freedom unto our hands by placing it submissively at our feet. But then, that is what we have done. Is it that which Thou has striven for? Is this the k

t for my hate, oh scaled and shining One!

The sun was setting, etching the green and hazy blue of the forest in brief gold. The waning beams glinted on the thick golden chain which Dion of Attalus twisted continually in his pudgy hand as he sat in the flaming riot of blossoms and flower­-trees which was his garden. He shifted his fat body on his marble seat and glanced furtively about, as if in quest of a lurking enemy. He sat within a circular grove of slender trees, whose interlapping branches cast a thick shade over him. Near at hand a fountain tinkled silverly, and other unseen fountains in various parts of the great garden whispered an everlasting symphony.

Dion was alone except for the great dusky figure which lounged on a marble bench close at hand, watching the baron with deep somber eyes. Dion gave little thought to Thoth-amon. He vaguely knew that he was a slave in whom Ascalante reposed much trust, but like so many rich men, Dion paid scant heed to men below his own station i

e evolution of warfare made a successful fighting machine something elaborate, expensive, and maintainable by professionals only. Like in the Roman Empire. It took years to train a legionnaire and a lot of money to equip an army and keep it in the field. So Rome became autarchic. However, it was not so expensive a proposition that a rebellious general couldn't put some troops up for a while--or he could pay them with plunder. So you did get civil wars. Later, when the Empire had broken up and warfare relied largely on the individual barbarian who brought his own weapons with him, government loosened. It had to--any ruler who got to throwing his weight around too much would have insurrection on his hands. Then as war again became an art--well, you see how it goes. There are other factors, of course, like religion--ideology in general. But by and large, it's worked out the way I explained it. Because there are always people willing to fight when government encroaches on what they consider their liberties, and g

ensor and You.

###

Craphound =========

Craphound had wicked yard-sale karma, for a rotten, filthy alien bastard. He was too good at panning out the single grain of gold in a raging river of uselessness for me not to like him -- respect him, anyway. But then he found the cowboy trunk. It was two months' rent to me and nothing but some squirrelly alien kitsch-fetish to Craphound.

So I did the unthinkable. I violated the Code. I got into a bidding war with a buddy. Never let them tell you that women poison friendships: in my experience, wounds from women-fights heal quickly; fights over garbage leave nothing behind but scorched earth.

Craphound spotted the sign -- his karma, plus the goggles in his exoskeleton, gave him the advantage when we were doing 80 kmh on some stretch of back-highway in cottage country. He was riding shotgun while I drove, and we had the radio on to the CBC's summer-Saturday programming: eight weekends with eight hours of old radio dramas: "The Shadow,"

"Well, to make a long story short, I used to find the little man in his place every morning, always with his black bag, and for nigh unto four months never a day passed without his having his three hours' drive and paying his fare like a man at the end of it. I shifted into new quarters on the strength of it, and was able to buy a new set of harness. I don't say as I altogether swallowed the story of the doctors having recommended him on a hot day to go about in a growler with both windows up. However, it's a bad thing in this world to be too knowing, so though I own I felt a bit curious at it never put myself out o' the way to find out what the little game was. One day, I was driving up to my usual place of dropping him--for by this time we had got into the way of going a regular beat every morning--when I saw a policeman waiting, a perky sort of look about him, as if he had some job on hand. When the cab stopped out jumped the little man with his bag right into the arms of the 'bobby.'

"'I arrest you, John Malone,' says the policeman.

"'On what charge?' he answers as cool as a turnip.

"'On the charge of forging Bank of

"The night can hear," answered Ka-nu obliquely. "There are worlds within worlds. But you may trust me and you may trust Brule, the Spear-slayer. Look!" He drew from his robes a bracelet of gold representing a winged dragon coiled thrice, with three horns of ruby on the head.

"Examine it closely. Brule will wear it on his arm when he comes to you tomorrow night so that you may know him. Trust Brule as you trust yourself, and do what he tells you to. And in proof of trust, look ye!"

And with the speed of a striking hawk, the ancient snatched something from his robes, something that flung a weird green light over them, and which he replaced in an instant.

"The stolen gem!" exclaimed Kull recoiling. "The green jewel from the Temple of the Serpent! Valka! You! And why do you show it to me?"

"To save your life. To prove my trust. If I betray your trust, deal with me likewise. You hold my life in your hand. Now I could not be false to you if I would, for a word from you would b

Barny O'Reirdon the Navigator by Samuel Lover
Haddad-Ben-Ahab the Traveller by John Galt
Bluebeard's Ghost by Wm. M. Thackeray
The Picnic Party by Horace Smith
Father Tom and the Pope by Samuel Ferguson
Johnny Darbyshire by William Howitt
The Gridiron by Samuel Lover
The Box Tunnel by Charles Reade

life had shaped itself into that form, and he hadgrown used to it. He had taught himself a language down here,--ifonly to know it by sight, and to have formed his own crude ideas ofits pronunciation, could be called learning it. He had also workedat fractions and decimals, and tried a little algebra; but he was,and had been as a boy, a poor hand at figures. Was it necessary forhim when on duty always to remain in that channel of damp air, andcould he never rise into the sunshine from between those high stonewalls? Why, that depended upon times and circumstances. Under someconditions there would be less upon the Line than under others, andthe same held good as to certain hours of the day and night. Inbright weather, he did choose occasions for getting a little abovethese lower shadows; but, being at all times liable to be called byhis electric bell, and at such times listening for it with redoubledanxiety, the relief was less than I would suppose.

He took me into his box, where there was

b. The Breslau Textc. The Macnaghten Text and the Bulak Editiond. The same with Mr. Lane's and my VersionAppendix II--Contributions to the Bibliography of the Thousand andOne Nights and their Imitations, By W. F. Kirby

The Book Of TheTHOUSAND NIGHTS AND A NIGHT

MA'ARUF THE COBBLER AND HIS WIFE

There dwelt once upon a time in the God-guarded city of Cairo acobbler who lived by patching old shoes.[FN#1] His name wasMa'aruf[FN#2] and he had a wife called Fatimah, whom the folk hadnicknamed "The Dung;"[FN#3] for that she was a whorish, worthlesswretch, scanty of shame and mickle of mischief. She ruled herspouse and abused him; and he feared her malice and dreaded hermisdoings; for that he was a sensible man but poor-conditioned.When he earned much, he spent it on her, and when he gainedlittle, she revenged herself on his body that night, leaving himno peace

eye could reach. In all its vast expanse there was no break but for a single galley, which was slowly making its way from the direction of Sicily and heading for the distant harbour of Carthage.

Seen from afar it was a stately and beautiful vessel, deep red in colour, double-banked with scarlet oars, its broad, flapping sail stained with Tyrian purple, its bulwarks gleaming with brass work. A brazen, three-pronged ram projected in front, and a high golden figure of Baal, the God of the Ph[oe]nicians, children of Canaan, shone upon the after-deck. From the single high mast above the huge sail streamed the tiger-striped flag of Carthage. So, like some stately scarlet bird, with golden beak and wings of purple, she swam upon the face of the waters--a thing of might and of beauty as seen from the distant shore.

But approach and look at her now! What are these dark streaks which foul her white decks and dapple her brazen shields? Why do the long red oars move out of time, irregular, convulsive? Why a