Civils.ai

Truth is that an artist put a midget on display in a glass box in Trafalgar Square for a week. Karl Pilkington, himself a “royal pain in the arse” and “village idiot” according to Ricky Gervais, was only put on the show for Ricky's amusement. The famous quote I put before you is that when told about the poor little disabled fella in a glass box on display in London, his fellow Londoner only had this to say: “what's art about that?” He had yet to realize that he himself was also a true gift to our generation put on to dance and sing and put on a show. Afterwards he would swear to never collaborate with Rick again, but at the time he just didn't put 2+2 together - not everyone who is nice to you is your friend. Regardless, when put to the question of whether or not people in glass houses should throw stones, Karl posed they shouldn't walk about naked - Fair point and I'll come back here, but Rick laughed him off and said it's about making sure to worry about the fragility of your own situation before waging war. Re: walking around naked, it's a fair point- you'd be treated to absolutely no credible privacy should you, too, end up in a glass box on display or a glass house. What it truly means is that if your success and career has been delivered, then you cannot test the bounds of the system else worry about biting the hand that feeds. We're about to see all the tweets being deleted and all the books be burned. What record of our purgery will there be? None. Unless we return blockchain back to it's core purpose as a distributed consensus mechanism and boot all these strangers and their get rich quick stuff out. I built a few useful tools lately - backup all your Notion.so docs to Bitcoin as compressed text ordinals, do the same with stack exchange sites. I even put the entirety of the bitcoin stack exchange onto the bitcoin testnet and now anyone running a testnet node in the worst case scenario will be able to do whatever they please with Bitcoin if they just look at those ordinals. We need a Diary of Anne Frank for the Holocaust going on in front of our eyes, or else everything will be forgotten if anything is left. -second article gracias, on the house- A Bit of Background As an avid gamer I found myself modding often - it started with a title called Black & White, where I rewrote the maps to give you a whole bunch of extra spells so you could teach your monster the hilariously best spells right off the bat without much knowledge. Or giving infinite resources to the map Big Game Hunters. The idea was simple: lessen my time playing the game, while I could still enjoy the various aspects of the game. This is maximizing utility in a sense - or a nice little life hack. Either way, one of my most glorious triumphs was in modding Civilization IV. I never understood why in any of the Sid Meier’s titles you couldn’t have a much more playable experience if each team had access to a much more frequent birthing of Great People. If you could found a few more squares with 9+ of each resource, by having your Great Person set up camp there - or whatever other benefit your various Great People might have - you could have a much more enjoyable (and relatively easier) time playing. That is to say: if the opposition (especially an AI-driven opponent) has no idea how to utilize these plethora of new tools and weapons, they would be centuries behind your empire. No matter how many cities they founded or how far they extended their reach - the ways in which your nation outshone theirs would multiply exponentially. A quick and dirty setup would be to birth a Great Prophet followed almost immediately (maybe even the same turn, if you’re lucky) by another Great Prophet. You’d have a religion before anyone else! Or is that Civilization V? The solution to gaming is easy: change the rules. And bring back corporations and spies from the earlier games - much cooler, imho.

'People in Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw Stones' and Modding Civilization

Mark Twain's Speeches by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . THE DRESS OF CIVILIZED WOMAN here THE DRESS OF CIVILIZED WOMAN A large part of the daughter of civilization is her dress—as it should be. Some civilized women would lose half their charm without dress, and some would lose all of it. The daughter of modern civilization dressed at her utmost best is a marvel of exquisite and beautiful art and expense. All the lands, all the climes, and all the arts are laid under tribute to furnish her forth. Her linen is from Belfast, her robe is from Paris, her lace is from Venice, or Spain, or France, her feathers are from the remote regions of Southern Africa, her furs from the remoter region of the iceberg and the aurora, her fan from Japan, her diamonds from Brazil, her bracelets from California, her pearls from Ceylon, her cameos from Rome. She has gems and trinkets from buried Pompeii, and others that graced comely Egyptian forms that have been dust and ashes now for forty centuries. Her watch is from Geneva, her card case is from China, her hair is from—from—I don’t know where her hair is from; I never could find out; that is, her other hair—her public hair, her Sunday hair; I don’t mean the hair she goes to bed with. And that reminds me of a trifle. Any time you want to you can glance around the carpet of a Pullman car, and go and pick up a hair-pin; but not to save your life can you get any woman in that car to acknowledge that hair-pin. Now, isn’t that strange? But it’s true. The woman who has never swerved from cast-iron veracity and fidelity in her whole life will, when confronted with this crucial test, deny her hair-pin. She will deny that hair-pin before a hundred witnesses. I have stupidly got into more trouble and more hot water trying to hunt up the owner of a hair-pin in a Pullman than by any other indiscretion of my life. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). Mark Twain's Speeches. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3188/pg3188-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

THE DRESS OF CIVILIZED WOMAN

The Bible of Civilization - Part 2

The Bible of Civilization - Part 1

Artificial Light: Its Influence upon Civilization by Matthew Luckiesh is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. Read this book online for free on HackerNoon! : Artificial Light: Its Influence upon Civilization Title : Matthew Luckiesh Author : January 29, 2006 [eBook #17625] Release date : English Language Table of Links PREFACE. CHAPTER I. Light and Progress II. The Art of Making Fire III. Primitive Light-Sources IV. The Ceremonial Use of Light V. Oil-Lamps of the Nineteenth Century VI. Early Gas-Lighting VII. The Science of Light-Production VIII. Modern Gas-Lighting IX. The Electric Arcs X. The Electric Incandescent Filament Lamps XI. The Light of the Future XII. Lighting the Streets XIII. Lighthouses XIV. Artificial Light in Warfare XV. Signaling XVI. The Cost of Light XVII. Light and Safety XVIII. The Cost of Living XIX. Artificial Light and Chemistry XX. Light and Health XXI. Modifying Artificial Light XXII. Spectacular Lighting XXIII. The Expressiveness of Light XXIV. Lighting the Home XXV. Lighting—A Fine Art? About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Matthew Luckiesh (2006). Artificial Light: Its Influence upon Civilization. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/17625/pg17625-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

Artificial Light: Its Influence upon Civilization by Matthew Luckiesh - Table of Links

Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . The Height of Civilization The Height of Civilization Another month brought them to a little group of buildings at the mouth of a wide river, and there Tarzan saw many boats, and was filled with the timidity of the wild thing by the sight of many men. Gradually he became accustomed to the strange noises and the odd ways of civilization, so that presently none might know that two short months before, this handsome Frenchman in immaculate white ducks, who laughed and chatted with the gayest of them, had been swinging naked through primeval forests to pounce upon some unwary victim, which, raw, was to fill his savage belly. The knife and fork, so contemptuously flung aside a month before, Tarzan now manipulated as exquisitely as did the polished D’Arnot. So apt a pupil had he been that the young Frenchman had labored assiduously to make of Tarzan of the Apes a polished gentleman in so far as nicety of manners and speech were concerned. “God made you a gentleman at heart, my friend,” D’Arnot had said; “but we want His works to show upon the exterior also.” As soon as they had reached the little port, D’Arnot had cabled his government of his safety, and requested a three-months’ leave, which had been granted. He had also cabled his bankers for funds, and the enforced wait of a month, under which both chafed, was due to their inability to charter a vessel for the return to Tarzan’s jungle after the treasure. During their stay at the coast town “Monsieur Tarzan” became the wonder of both whites and blacks because of several occurrences which to Tarzan seemed the merest of nothings. Once a huge black, crazed by drink, had run amuck and terrorized the town, until his evil star had led him to where the black-haired French giant lolled upon the veranda of the hotel. Mounting the broad steps, with brandished knife, the Negro made straight for a party of four men sitting at a table sipping the inevitable absinthe. Shouting in alarm, the four took to their heels, and then the black spied Tarzan. With a roar he charged the ape-man, while half a hundred heads peered from sheltering windows and doorways to witness the butchering of the poor Frenchman by the giant black. Tarzan met the rush with the fighting smile that the joy of battle always brought to his lips. As the Negro closed upon him, steel muscles gripped the black wrist of the uplifted knife-hand, and a single swift wrench left the hand dangling below a broken bone. With the pain and surprise, the madness left the black man, and as Tarzan dropped back into his chair the fellow turned, crying with agony, and dashed wildly toward the native village. On another occasion as Tarzan and D’Arnot sat at dinner with a number of other whites, the talk fell upon lions and lion hunting. Opinion was divided as to the bravery of the king of beasts—some maintaining that he was an arrant coward, but all agreeing that it was with a feeling of greater security that they gripped their express rifles when the monarch of the jungle roared about a camp at night. D’Arnot and Tarzan had agreed that his past be kept secret, and so none other than the French officer knew of the ape-man’s familiarity with the beasts of the jungle. “Monsieur Tarzan has not expressed himself,” said one of the party. “A man of his prowess who has spent some time in Africa, as I understand Monsieur Tarzan has, must have had experiences with lions—yes?” “Some,” replied Tarzan, dryly. “Enough to know that each of you are right in your judgment of the characteristics of the lions—you have met. But one might as well judge all blacks by the fellow who ran amuck last week, or decide that all whites are cowards because one has met a cowardly white. “There is as much individuality among the lower orders, gentlemen, as there is among ourselves. Today we may go out and stumble upon a lion which is over-timid—he runs away from us. To-morrow we may meet his uncle or his twin brother, and our friends wonder why we do not return from the jungle. For myself, I always assume that a lion is ferocious, and so I am never caught off my guard.” “There would be little pleasure in hunting,” retorted the first speaker, “if one is afraid of the thing he hunts.” D’Arnot smiled. Tarzan afraid! “I do not exactly understand what you mean by fear,” said Tarzan. “Like lions, fear is a different thing in different men, but to me the only pleasure in the hunt is the knowledge that the hunted thing has power to harm me as much as I have to harm him. If I went out with a couple of rifles and a gun bearer, and twenty or thirty beaters, to hunt a lion, I should not feel that the lion had much chance, and so the pleasure of the hunt would be lessened in proportion to the increased safety which I felt.” “Then I am to take it that Monsieur Tarzan would prefer to go naked into the jungle, armed only with a jackknife, to kill the king of beasts,” laughed the other, good naturedly, but with the merest touch of sarcasm in his tone. “And a piece of rope,” added Tarzan. Just then the deep roar of a lion sounded from the distant jungle, as though to challenge whoever dared enter the lists with him. “There is your opportunity, Monsieur Tarzan,” bantered the Frenchman. “I am not hungry,” said Tarzan simply. The men laughed, all but D’Arnot. He alone knew that a savage beast had spoken its simple reason through the lips of the ape-man. “But you are afraid, just as any of us would be, to go out there naked, armed only with a knife and a piece of rope,” said the banterer. “Is it not so?” “No,” replied Tarzan. “Only a fool performs any act without reason.” “Five thousand francs is a reason,” said the other. “I wager you that amount you cannot bring back a lion from the jungle under the conditions we have named—naked and armed only with a knife and a piece of rope.” Tarzan glanced toward D’Arnot and nodded his head. “Make it ten thousand,” said D’Arnot. “Done,” replied the other. Tarzan arose. “I shall have to leave my clothes at the edge of the settlement, so that if I do not return before daylight I shall have something to wear through the streets.” “You are not going now,” exclaimed the wagerer—“at night?” “Why not?” asked Tarzan. “Numa walks abroad at night—it will be easier to find him.” “No,” said the other, “I do not want your blood upon my hands. It will be foolhardy enough if you go forth by day.” “I shall go now,” replied Tarzan, and went to his room for his knife and rope. The men accompanied him to the edge of the jungle, where he left his clothes in a small storehouse. But when he would have entered the blackness of the undergrowth they tried to dissuade him; and the wagerer was most insistent of all that he abandon his foolhardy venture. “I will accede that you have won,” he said, “and the ten thousand francs are yours if you will but give up this foolish attempt, which can only end in your death.” Tarzan laughed, and in another moment the jungle had swallowed him. The men stood silent for some moments and then slowly turned and walked back to the hotel veranda. Tarzan had no sooner entered the jungle than he took to the trees, and it was with a feeling of exultant freedom that he swung once more through the forest branches. This was life! Ah, how he loved it! Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities. Even clothes were a hindrance and a nuisance. At last he was free. He had not realized what a prisoner he had been. How easy it would be to circle back to the coast, and then make toward the south and his own jungle and cabin. Now he caught the scent of Numa, for he was traveling up wind. Presently his quick ears detected the familiar sound of padded feet and the brushing of a huge, fur-clad body through the undergrowth. Tarzan came quietly above the unsuspecting beast and silently stalked him until he came into a little patch of moonlight. Then the quick noose settled and tightened about the tawny throat, and, as he had done it a hundred times in the past, Tarzan made fast the end to a strong branch and, while the beast fought and clawed for freedom, dropped to the ground behind him, and leaping upon the great back, plunged his long thin blade a dozen times into the fierce heart. Then with his foot upon the carcass of Numa, he raised his voice in the awesome victory cry of his savage tribe. For a moment Tarzan stood irresolute, swayed by conflicting emotions of loyalty to D’Arnot and a mighty lust for the freedom of his own jungle. At last the vision of a beautiful face, and the memory of warm lips crushed to his dissolved the fascinating picture he had been drawing of his old life. The ape-man threw the warm carcass of Numa across his shoulders and took to the trees once more. The men upon the veranda had sat for an hour, almost in silence. They had tried ineffectually to converse on various subjects, and always the thing uppermost in the mind of each had caused the conversation to lapse. “Mon Dieu,” said the wagerer at length, “I can endure it no longer. I am going into the jungle with my express and bring back that mad man.” “I will go with you,” said one. “And I”—“And I”—“And I,” chorused the others. As though the suggestion had broken the spell of some horrid nightmare they hastened to their various quarters, and presently were headed toward the jungle—each one heavily armed. “God! What was that?” suddenly cried one of the party, an Englishman, as Tarzan’s savage cry came faintly to their ears. “I heard the same thing once before,” said a Belgian, “when I was in the gorilla country. My carriers said it was the cry of a great bull ape who has made a kill.” D’Arnot remembered Clayton’s description of the awful roar with which Tarzan had announced his kills, and he half smiled in spite of the horror which filled him to think that the uncanny sound could have issued from a human throat—from the lips of his friend. As the party stood finally near the edge of the jungle, debating as to the best distribution of their forces, they were startled by a low laugh near them, and turning, beheld advancing toward them a giant figure bearing a dead lion upon its broad shoulders. Even D’Arnot was thunderstruck, for it seemed impossible that the man could have so quickly dispatched a lion with the pitiful weapons he had taken, or that alone he could have borne the huge carcass through the tangled jungle. The men crowded about Tarzan with many questions, but his only answer was a laughing depreciation of his feat. To Tarzan it was as though one should eulogize a butcher for his heroism in killing a cow, for Tarzan had killed so often for food and for self-preservation that the act seemed anything but remarkable to him. But he was indeed a hero in the eyes of these men—men accustomed to hunting big game. Incidentally, he had won ten thousand francs, for D’Arnot insisted that he keep it all. This was a very important item to Tarzan, who was just commencing to realize the power which lay beyond the little pieces of metal and paper which always changed hands when human beings rode, or ate, or slept, or clothed themselves, or drank, or worked, or played, or sheltered themselves from the rain or cold or sun. It had become evident to Tarzan that without money one must die. D’Arnot had told him not to worry, since he had more than enough for both, but the ape-man was learning many things and one of them was that people looked down upon one who accepted money from another without giving something of equal value in exchange. Shortly after the episode of the lion hunt, D’Arnot succeeded in chartering an ancient tub for the coastwise trip to Tarzan’s land-locked harbor. It was a happy morning for them both when the little vessel weighed anchor and made for the open sea. The trip to the beach was uneventful, and the morning after they dropped anchor before the cabin, Tarzan, garbed once more in his jungle regalia and carrying a spade, set out alone for the amphitheater of the apes where lay the treasure. Late the next day he returned, bearing the great chest upon his shoulder, and at sunrise the little vessel worked through the harbor’s mouth and took up her northward journey. Three weeks later Tarzan and D’Arnot were passengers on board a French steamer bound for Lyons, and after a few days in that city D’Arnot took Tarzan to Paris. The ape-man was anxious to proceed to America, but D’Arnot insisted that he must accompany him to Paris first, nor would he divulge the nature of the urgent necessity upon which he based his demand. One of the first things which D’Arnot accomplished after their arrival was to arrange to visit a high official of the police department, an old friend; and to take Tarzan with him. Adroitly D’Arnot led the conversation from point to point until the policeman had explained to the interested Tarzan many of the methods in vogue for apprehending and identifying criminals. Not the least interesting to Tarzan was the part played by finger prints in this fascinating science. “But of what value are these imprints,” asked Tarzan, “when, after a few years the lines upon the fingers are entirely changed by the wearing out of the old tissue and the growth of new?” “The lines never change,” replied the official. “From infancy to senility the fingerprints of an individual change only in size, except as injuries alter the loops and whorls. But if imprints have been taken of the thumb and four fingers of both hands one must needs lose all entirely to escape identification.” “It is marvelous,” exclaimed D’Arnot. “I wonder what the lines upon my own fingers may resemble.” “We can soon see,” replied the police officer, and ringing a bell he summoned an assistant to whom he issued a few directions. The man left the room, but presently returned with a little hardwood box which he placed on his superior’s desk. “Now,” said the officer, “you shall have your fingerprints in a second.” He drew from the little case a square of plate glass, a little tube of thick ink, a rubber roller, and a few snowy white cards. Squeezing a drop of ink onto the glass, he spread it back and forth with the rubber roller until the entire surface of the glass was covered to his satisfaction with a very thin and uniform layer of ink. “Place the four fingers of your right hand upon the glass, thus,” he said to D’Arnot. “Now the thumb. That is right. Now place them in just the same position upon this card, here, no—a little to the right. We must leave room for the thumb and the fingers of the left hand. There, that’s it. Now the same with the left.” “Come, Tarzan,” cried D’Arnot, “let’s see what your whorls look like.” Tarzan complied readily, asking many questions of the officer during the operation. “Do fingerprints show racial characteristics?” he asked. “Could you determine, for example, solely from fingerprints whether the subject was Negro or Caucasian?” “I think not,” replied the officer. “Could the finger prints of an ape be detected from those of a man?” “Probably, because the ape’s would be far simpler than those of the higher organism.” “But a cross between an ape and a man might show the characteristics of either progenitor?” continued Tarzan. “Yes, I should think likely,” responded the official; “but the science has not progressed sufficiently to render it exact enough in such matters. I should hate to trust its findings further than to differentiate between individuals. There it is absolute. No two people born into the world probably have ever had identical lines upon all their digits. It is very doubtful if any single fingerprint will ever be exactly duplicated by any finger other than the one which originally made it.” “Does the comparison require much time or labor?” asked D’Arnot. “Ordinarily but a few moments, if the impressions are distinct.” D’Arnot drew a little black book from his pocket and commenced turning the pages. Tarzan looked at the book in surprise. How did D’Arnot come to have his book? Presently D’Arnot stopped at a page on which were five tiny little smudges. He handed the open book to the policeman. “Are these imprints similar to mine or Monsieur Tarzan’s or can you say that they are identical with either?” The officer drew a powerful glass from his desk and examined all three specimens carefully, making notations meanwhile upon a pad of paper. Tarzan realized now what was the meaning of their visit to the police officer. The answer to his life’s riddle lay in these tiny marks. With tense nerves he sat leaning forward in his chair, but suddenly he relaxed and dropped back, smiling. D’Arnot looked at him in surprise. “You forget that for twenty years the dead body of the child who made those fingerprints lay in the cabin of his father, and that all my life I have seen it lying there,” said Tarzan bitterly. The policeman looked up in astonishment. “Go ahead, captain, with your examination,” said D’Arnot, “we will tell you the story later—provided Monsieur Tarzan is agreeable.” Tarzan nodded his head. “But you are mad, my dear D’Arnot,” he insisted. “Those little fingers are buried on the west coast of Africa.” “I do not know as to that, Tarzan,” replied D’Arnot. “It is possible, but if you are not the son of John Clayton then how in heaven’s name did you come into that God forsaken jungle where no white man other than John Clayton had ever set foot?” “You forget—Kala,” said Tarzan. “I do not even consider her,” replied D’Arnot. The friends had walked to the broad window overlooking the boulevard as they talked. For some time they stood there gazing out upon the busy throng beneath, each wrapped in his own thoughts. “It takes some time to compare finger prints,” thought D’Arnot, turning to look at the police officer. To his astonishment he saw the official leaning back in his chair hastily scanning the contents of the little black diary. D’Arnot coughed. The policeman looked up, and, catching his eye, raised his finger to admonish silence. D’Arnot turned back to the window, and presently the police officer spoke. “Gentlemen,” he said. Both turned toward him. “There is evidently a great deal at stake which must hinge to a greater or lesser extent upon the absolute correctness of this comparison. I therefore ask that you leave the entire matter in my hands until Monsieur Desquerc, our expert returns. It will be but a matter of a few days.” “I had hoped to know at once,” said D’Arnot. “Monsieur Tarzan sails for America tomorrow.” “I will promise that you can cable him a report within two weeks,” replied the officer; “but what it will be I dare not say. There are resemblances, yet—well, we had better leave it for Monsieur Desquerc to solve.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Edgar Rice Burroughs (1993). Tarzan of the Apes. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/78/pg78-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

The Height of Civilization

Star Born by Andre Alice Norton, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . CIVILIZATION CIVILIZATION Raf surveyed the wide sweep of prairie where dawn gave a gray tinge to soften the distance and mark the rounded billows of the ever-rippling grass. He tried to analyze what it was about this world which made it seem so untouched, so fresh and new. There were large sections of his own Terra which had been aban doned after the Big Burn-Off and the atomic wars, or later after the counterrevolution which had defeated the empire of Pax, during which mankind had slipped far back on the road to civilization. But he had never experienced this same feeling when he had ventured into those wildernesses. Almost he could believe that the records Hobart had showed him were false, that this world had never known intelligent life herding together in cities. He walked slowly down the ramp, drawing deep breaths of the crisp air. The day would grow warmer with the rising sun. But now it was just the sort of morning which led him to be glad he was alive—and young! Maybe part of it was because he was free of the ship and at last not just excess baggage but a man with a definite job before him. Spacemen tended to be young. But until this moment Raf had never felt the real careless freedom of youth. Now he was moved by a desire to disobey orders—to take the flitter up by himself and head off into the blue of the brightening sky for more than just a test flight, not to explore Hobart's city but to cruise over the vast sea of grass and find out its wonders for himself. But the discipline which had shaped him almost since birth sent him now to check the flyer and wait, inwardly impatient, for Hobart, Lablet, and Soriki, the com-tech, to join him. The wait was not a long one since the three others, with equipment hung about, tramped down the ramp as Raf settled himself behind the control board of the flyer. He triggered the shield which snapped over them for a windbreak and brought the flitter up into the spreading color of the morning. Beside him Hobart pressed the button of the automatic recorder, and in the seat behind, Soriki had the headset of the com clamped over his ears. They were not only making a record of their trip, they were continuing in constant communication with the ship—now already a silver pencil far to the rear. It was some two hours later that they discovered what was perhaps one reason for the isolation of the district in which the RS 10 had set down. Rolling foothills rose beneath them and miles ahead the white-capped peaks of a mountain range made a broken outline against the turquoise sky. The broken lands would be a formidable barrier for any foot travelers: there were no easy roads through that series of sharp lifts and narrow valleys. And the one stream they followed for a short space descended from the heights in spectacular falls. Twice they skimmed thick growths of trees, so tightly packed that from the air they resembled a matted carpet of green-blue. And to cut through such a forest would be an impossible task. The four in the flitter seldom spoke. Raf kept his attention on the controls. Sudden currents of air were tricky here, and he had to be constantly alert to hold the small flyer on an even keel. His glimpses of what lay below were only snatched ones. At last it was necessary to zoom far above the vegetation of the lower slopes, to reach an altitude safe enough to clear the peaks ahead. Since the air supply within the windshield was constant they need not fear lack of oxygen. But Raf was privately convinced, as they soared, that the range might well compare in height with those Asian mountains which dominated all the upflung reaches of his native world. When they were over the sharp points of that chain disaster almost overtook them. A freakish air current caught the flitter as if in a giant hand, and Raf fought for control as they lost altitude past the margin of safety. Had he not allowed for just such a happening they might have been smashed against one of the rock tips over which they skimmed to a precarious safety. Raf, his mouth dry, his hands sweating on the controls, took them up—higher than was necessary—to coast above the last of that rocky spine to see below the beginning of the downslopes leading to the plains the range cut in half. He heard Hobart draw a hissing breath. "That was a close call." Lablet's precise, lecturer's voice cut through the drone of the motor. "Yeah," Soriki echoed, "looked like we might be sandwich meat there for a while. The kid knows his stuff after all." Raf grinned a little sourly, but he did not answer that. He ought to know his trade. Why else would he be along? They were each specialists in one or two fields. But he had good sense enough to keep his mouth shut. That way the less one had to regret minutes—or hours—later. The land on the south side of the mountains was different in character to the wild northern plains. "Fields!" It did not require that identification from Lablet to point out what they had already seen. The section below was artificially divided into long narrow strips. But the vegetation growing on those strips was no different from the northern grass they had seen about the spacer. "Not cultivated now," the scientist amended his first report. "It's reverting to grassland—" Raf brought the flitter closer to the ground so that when a domed structure arose out of a tangle of overgrown shrubs and trees they were not more than fifty feet above it. There was no sign of life about the dwelling, if dwelling it was, and the unkempt straggle of growing things suggested that it had been left to itself through more than one season. Lablet wanted to set down and explore, but the captain was intent upon reaching the city. A solitary farm was of little value compared with what they might learn from a metropolis. So, rather to Raf's relief, he was ordered on. He could not have explained why he shrank from such investigation. Where earlier that morning he had wanted to take the flitter and go off by himself to ex plore the world which seemed so bright and new, now he was glad that he was only the pilot of the flyer and that the others were not only in his company but ready to make the decisions. He had a queer distaste for the countryside, a disinclination to land near that dome. Beyond the first of the deserted farms they came to the highway and, since the buckled and half-buried roadway ran south, Hobart suggested that they use it as a visible guide. More isolated dome houses showed in the course of an hour. And their fields were easy to map from the air. But nowhere did the Terrans see any indication that those fields were in use. Nor were there any signs of animal or bird life. The weird desolation of the landscape began to work its spell on the men in the flitter. There was something unnatural about the country, and with every mile the flyer clocked off, Raf longed to be heading in the opposite direction. The domes drew closer together, made a cluster at crossroads, gathered into a town in which all the buildings were the same shape and size, like the cells of a wasp nest. Raf wondered if those who had built them had not been humanoid at all, but perhaps insects with a hive mind. And because that thought was unpleasant he resolutely turned his attention to the machine he piloted. They passed over four such towns, all marking intersections of roads running east and west, north and south, with precise exactness. The sun was at noon or a little past that mark when Captain Hobart gave the order to set down so that they could break out rations and eat. Raf brought the flitter down on the cracked surface of the road, mistrusting what might lie hidden in the field grass. They got out and walked for a space along pavement which had once been smooth. "High-powered traffic—" That was Lablet. He had gone down on one knee and was tracing a finger along the substance. "Straight—" Soriki squinted against the sun. "Nothing stopped them, did it? We want a road here and we'll get it! That sort of thing. Must have been master engineers." To Raf the straight highways suggested something else. Master engineering, certainly. But a ruthlessness too, as if the builders, who refused to accept any modifications of their original plans from nature, might be as arrogant and self-assured in other ways. He did not admire this relic of civilization; in fact it added to his vague uneasiness. The land was so still, under the whisper of the wind. He discovered that he was listening—listening for the buzz of an insect, the squeak of some grass dweller, anything which would mean that there was life about them. As he chewed on the ration concentrate and drank sparingly from his canteen, Raf continued to listen. Without result. Hobart and Lablet were engrossed in speculation about what might lie ahead. Soriki had gone back to the flitter to make his report to the ship. The pilot sat where he was, content to be forgotten, but eager to see an animal peering at him from cover, a bird winging through the air. "—if we don't hit it by nightfall—But we can't be that far away! I'll stay out and try tomorrow." That was Hobart. And since he was captain what he said was probably what they would do. Raf shied away from the thought of spending the night in this haunted land. Though, on the other hand, he would be utterly opposed to lifting the flitter over those mountains again except in broad daylight. But the problem did not arise, for they found their city in the midafternoon, the road bringing them straight to an amazing collection of buildings, which appeared doubly alien to their eyes since it did not include any of the low domes they had seen heretofore. Here were towers of needle slimness, solid blocks of almost windowless masonry looking twice as bulky beside those same towers, archways stringing at dizzy heights above the ground from one skyscraper to the next. And here time and nature had been at work. Some of the towers were broken off, a causeway displayed a gap—Once it had been a breathtaking feat of engineering, far more impressive than the highway, now it was a slowly collapsing ruin. But before they had time to take it all in Soriki gave an exclamation. "Something coming through on our wave band, sir!" He leaned forward to dig fingers into Hobart's shoulder. "Message of some kind—I'd swear to it!" Hobart snapped into action. "Kurbi—set down—there!" His choice of a landing place was the flat top of a near-by building, one which stood a little apart from its neighbors and, as Raf could see, was not overlooked except by a ruined tower. He circled the flitter. The machine had been specially designed to land and take off in confined spaces, and he knew all there was possible to learn about its handling on his home world. But he had never tried to bring it down on a roof, and he was very sure that now he had no margin for error left him, not with Hobart breathing impatiently beside him, his hands moving as if, as a pilot of a spacer, he could well take over the controls here. Raf circled twice, eyeing the surface of the roof in search of any break which could mean a crack-up at landing. And then, though he refused to be hurried by the urgency of the men with him, he came in, cutting speed, bringing them down with only a slight jar. Hobart twisted around to face Soriki. "Still getting it?" The other, cupping his earphones to his head with his hands, nodded. "Give me a minute or two," he told them, "and I'll have a fix. They're excited about something—the way this jabber-jabber is coming through—" "About us," Raf thought. The ruined tower topped them to the south. And to the east and west there were buildings as high as the one they were perched on. But the town he had seen as he maneuvered for a landing had held no signs of life. Around them were only signs of decay. Lablet got out of the flitter and walked to the edge of the roof, leaning against the parapet to focus his vision glasses on what lay below. After a moment Raf followed his example. Silence and desolation, windows like the eye pits in bone-picked skulls. There were even some small patches of vegetation rooted and growing in pockets erosion had carved in the walls. To the pilot's uninformed eyes the city looked wholly dead. "Got it!" Soriki's exultant cry brought them back to the flitter. As if his body was the indicator, he had pivoted until his outstretched hand pointed southwest. "About a quarter of a mile that way." They shielded their eyes against the westering sun. A block of solid masonry loomed high in the sky, dwarfing not only the building they were standing on but all the towers around it. Its imposing lines made clear its one-time importance. "Palace," mused Lablet, "or capitol. I'd say it was just about the heart of the city." He dropped his glasses to swing on their cord, his eyes glistening as he spoke directly to Raf. "Can you set us down on that?" The pilot measured the curving roof of the structure. A crazy fool might try to make a landing there. But he was no crazy fool. "Not on that roof!" he spoke with decision. To his relief the captain confirmed his verdict with a slow nod. "Better find out more first." Hobart could be cautious when he wanted to. "Are they still broadcasting, Soriki?" The com-tech had stripped the earphones from his head and was rubbing one ear. "Are they!" he exploded. "I'd think you could hear them clear over there, sir!" And they could. The gabble-gabble which bore no resemblance to any language Terra knew boiled out of the phones. "Someone's excited," Lablet commented in his usual mild tone. "Maybe they've discovered us." Hobart's hand went to the weapon at his belt. "We must make peaceful contact—if we can." Lablet took off his helmet and ran his fingers through the scrappy ginger-and-gray fringe receding from his forehead. "Yes—contact will be necessary—" he said thoughtfully. Well, he was supposed to be their expert on that. Raf watched the older man with something akin to amusement. The pilot had a suspicion that none of the other three, Lablet included, was in any great hurry to push through contact with unknown aliens. It was a case of dancing along on shore before having to plunge into the chill of autumn sea waves. Terrans had explored their own solar system, and they had speculated learnedly for generations on the problem of intelligent alien life. There had been all kinds of reports by experts and would-be experts. But the stark fact remained that heretofore mankind as born on the third planet of Sol had not encountered intelligent alien life. And just how far did speculations, reports, and arguments go when one was faced with the problem to be solved practically—and speedily? Raf's own solution would have been to proceed with caution and yet more caution. Under his technical training he had far more imagination than any of his officers had ever realized. And now he was certain that the best course of action was swift retreat until they knew more about what was to be faced. But in the end the decision was taken out of their hands. A muffled exclamation from Lablet brought them all around to see that distant curving roof crack wide open. From the shadows within, a flyer spiraled up into the late afternoon sky. Raf reached the flitter in two leaps. Without orders he had the spray gun ready for action, on point and aimed at the bobbing machine heading toward them. From the earphones Soriki had left on the seat the gabble had risen to a screech and one part of Raf's brain noted that the sounds were repetitious: was an order to surrender being broadcast? His thumb was firm on the firing button of the gun and he was about to send a warning burst to the right of the alien when an order from Hobart stopped him cold. "Take it easy, Kurbi." Soriki said something about a "gun-happy flitter pilot," but, Raf noted with bleak eyes, the com-tech kept his own hand close to his belt arm. Only Lablet stood watching the oncoming alien ship with placidity. But then, as Raf had learned through the long voyage of the spacer, a period of time which had left few character traits of any of the crew hidden from their fellows, the xenobiologist was a fatalist and strictly averse to personal combat. The pilot did not leave his seat at the gun. But within seconds he knew that they had lost the initial advantage. As the tongue-shaped stranger thrust at them and then swept on to glide above their heads so that the weird shadow of the ship licked them from light to dark and then to light again, Raf was certain that his superiors had made the wrong decision. They should have left the city as soon as they picked up those signals—if they could have gone then. He studied the other flyer. Its lines suggested speed as well as mobility, and he began to doubt if they could have escaped with that craft trailing them. Well, what would they do now? The alien flyer could not land here, not without coming down flat upon the flitter. Maybe it would cruise overhead as a warning threat until the city dwellers were able to reach the Terrans in some other manner. Tense, the four spacemen stood watching the graceful movements of the flyer. There were no visible portholes or openings anywhere along its ovoid sides. It might be a robot-controlled ship, it might be anything, Raf thought, even a bomb of sorts. If it was being flown by some human—or nonhuman—flyer, he was a master pilot. "I don't understand," Soriki moved impatiently. "They're just shuttling around up there. What do we do now?" Lablet turned his head. He was smiling faintly. "We wait," he told the com-tech. "I should imagine it takes time to climb twenty flights of stairs—if they have stairs—" Soriki's attention fell from the flyer hovering over their heads to the surface of the roof. Raf had already looked that over without seeing any opening. But he did not doubt the truth of Lablet's surmise. Sooner or later the aliens were going to reappear. And it did not greatly matter to the marooned Terrans whether they would drop from the sky or rise from below. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Andre Alice Norton (2006). Star Born. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/18458/pg18458-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

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