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what he just heard. Shane looks back at Pacifico and makes a decision. The ball is snapped perfectly. Shane catches it and spots it perfectly. Pacifico moves to kick it. And Shane pulls the ball away. Pacifico flies through the air like Snoopy as he kicks nothing but air. He lands hard. Shane jumps to his feet and starts running. He's in shock. The Dallas middle linebacker has recovered and is moving quickly to cut Shane off. But Reese Evans comes out of nowhere and crushes the guy with a flying block. Shane cuts downfield and heads for the end zone with nobody near him, except: For the same safety from the first half who waits for him at the ten. The safety smiles as he takes a bead on Shane. Shane heads right for the guy. He puts his head down and smacks helmets with the safety. The guy goes down and Shane runs over him and into the end zone. He jumps into the air. Shane stands stock-still in the end zone watching the REF call the penalty. He looks sick. Shane walks up to Pacifico who is down. His arm is being immobilized by a team trainer. Shane nods. In his earpiece, he hears McGinty. McGINTY (V.O.) Someday, you can explain what that was all about. We got no <b> </b> kicker, so you gotta take it in. Your pick. You're the leader. Shane leans into the huddle. He looks around the huddle. He studies each face. And then he comes to rest on Brian Murray. Brian's eyes are shining. He doesn't need words here. Everybody puts their hands into the middle. <b> </b>They break the huddle with a roar. Shane nods. On the snap, Shane rolls left. Todd, Rod and Bob are screaming. <b> </b>O'Neil kisses Augustine. Annabelle throws a punch into the air. McGinty is all smiles. Shane walks up to him and they shake hands. Pilachowski and Banes hug. Lee and Andre are hugging and crying. Cochran is on his knees praying. Reese Evans joins him. Wilkinson hugs Jamal. Clifford Franklin, hometown boy, throws himself into the stands where fans mob him. But he slips awkwardly and falls. He grabs his knee and screams. players have now seen the error of their ways and are coming back in <b> </b> droves. Apparently, they have been struck with the realization that it is a blessing to be playing professional football. There is dead silence in the room. Everybody thinks it's over. McGINTY But they had their chance. Now it's your turn. Mister O'Neil and I have agreed to ban all striking players and to continue to go with you guys. There's a beat and then everyone breaks into cheers. Suddenly, the door flies open and a REPORTER and a cameraman step in and start filming. The Reporter shoves a microphone at McGinty. Out in the restaurant, patrons see the players and a few break into "Hail to the Redskins." Suddenly, the whole restaurant starts singing. Shane looks embarrassed. Pacifico stands up on his seat, and conducts the singing. Andre and Jamal hold their lobsters in the air and make them dance to the song. Martel looks very angry. She gives him a bottle of pills. Shane smiles at her. She suddenly grabs him and they kiss big- time. Then she breaks and walks quickly away. Shane doesn't know what to make of this. Shane is running away from three New York Giant defensive linemen. Shane is not even looking for a receiver. He's looking to save his life. Finally, he's caught by a six-foot-five, two hundred and seventy pound defensive end named HANK MORRIS, who throws him down and lands on top of him. Oooof! He does his interview on camera, standing in front of a huge semi-truck. And a big, overweight truck driver stands next to him. The truck driver suddenly pumps his arm and a <b>CACOPHONY OF TRUCK AIR HORNS GO OFF. </b> enters in street clothes and starts undressing quickly. He looks worried. Shane watches Lou for a beat. We see Shane shift his upper body and grimace. McGinty enters and pulls Shane aside. McGINTY Congratulations. It's official. You're staying on after the strike. Shane smiles in spite of the pain. McGINTY It's probably better that you not say anything to the rest of the guys until after the game. Okay? McGinty walks into the middle of the locker room and goes into pre-game speech mode. McGINTY Alright, listen up. The strike is just about history. By tomorrow, you will no longer be Redskins. It's important that you leave here, however, with the knowledge that you have made a difference in your own life, in the owner's life -- or what's left of it -- and especially the fans'. You have proven to a skeptical America that sports is not about contracts, or agents or shoe deals. Sports is about rising <b> </b> to the occasion. We have one more opportunity tonight to do that, one more chance to show what heart is all about. The Dallas Cowboys are waiting out there to kill you. I expect nothing less than for you to win even in your death throes. We have a powerful weapon on our side tonight: there is no tomorrow for most of you. And that makes you very dangerous people. Use it. Everybody laughs politely. He gets high fives from Todd and Rod for Wilkinson's hit. He turns and sees a smiling Annabelle. Shane gives her a guilty wave and then cringes with the pain of just having to lift his arm. On the snap, Butler bashes Cochran's head with his forearm and knocks his helmet off. Then he runs over football pants and then has to deal with the cup, etc. Next to him, at another urinal, is WALTER COCHRAN, a big, serious bornagain tackle. As he pisses, Walter has his Bible propped open behind the flush handle so he won't miss a minute of scripture. Shane nods. Walter pees for a beat. By now Shane is pissing too. Walter takes his hand off his whizzing member and holds it out to Shane. Shane looks at Walter's hand for a long time, <b> </b>but finally, he removes his own guiding hand and clasps Walter's hand tentatively. A barbecue is in progress for the new Washington Redskins at the beautiful home of Coach McGinty. The huge back yard features a pool and a catered buffet/barbecue. Andre and Jamal are loading down their plates. Mickey Lee is gnawing on a two-foot slab of ribs. Lou Pacifico has a little three card monty going at a picnic table. Wilkinson is smiling but he looks dangerous. Shane is standing alone in a large hallway looking at an enormous trophy case stuffed with the spoils of football. Shane turns and sees her. She's as fetching as ever. Shane has to actually smile at this. Shane is totally taken off guard by this woman. Shane waves uncertainly and walks away. The Judge (now with his jacket off) and Wilkinson are lined up across from each other in a three-point stance in something called a man maker drill. The entire team forms two lanes on either side of them, as they face off. The idea is to knock the other guy down and get by him. Someone says hut! And Wilkinson slams into the Republican 16th Circuit Court Judge and knocks him head over heels. The Judge lands on his back, wham! pros. And they've all got something... unique to bring to the game. We're gonna take these people and try to put together a winning team. And if nothing else, they should be fun to watch. McGinty looks up when he senses someone standing in the doorway. It's REESE EVANS, the veteran Redskin we saw standing on the sidelines with the clean uniform. McGINTY How you doin', Reese? McGinty nods to Pilachowski. The coach takes a marker and fills in "Evans" in the center circle. McGINTY Welcome to the new Washington Redskins. (to his coaches) Let's find Reese somebody to play with. After a beat, one of the Bikers looks up at the door. The other biker shakes his head, no. The one who asked the question walks over to the door and listens for a beat. Nothing. He turns to go back and suddenly the door disintegrates in front of a charging man wearing a "police" windbreaker. Bateman dives on two more Bikers, and <b> </b>viciously head-butts one of them. He stuffs the other's head into the meth mixture, pulls him out and clubs him with a big police blackjack, three quick times: Rap! Rap! Rap! The guy goes down like lead. Bateman looks around and spots a big BIKER cowering in a corner. The Biker is terrified. Bateman takes two stops toward the guy when suddenly three more COPS wearing windbreakers run in, out of breath. They look around at the unconscious Bikers. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Someone's BEEPER is going off. The three cops look at theirs. Nothing. The cowering Biker looks at his. Bateman pulls his beeper, studies it and looks puzzled. Clifford's hands are up as he waits to catch the bread which was tossed by his MANAGER at the back of the store. The loaf hits | Why does Falco stand Annabelle up on their date? | Because of his depression. |
enters in street clothes and starts undressing quickly. He looks worried. Shane watches Lou for a beat. We see Shane shift his upper body and grimace. McGinty enters and pulls Shane aside. McGINTY Congratulations. It's official. You're staying on after the strike. Shane smiles in spite of the pain. McGINTY It's probably better that you not say anything to the rest of the guys until after the game. Okay? McGinty walks into the middle of the locker room and goes into pre-game speech mode. McGINTY Alright, listen up. The strike is just about history. By tomorrow, you will no longer be Redskins. It's important that you leave here, however, with the knowledge that you have made a difference in your own life, in the owner's life -- or what's left of it -- and especially the fans'. You have proven to a skeptical America that sports is not about contracts, or agents or shoe deals. Sports is about rising <b> </b> to the occasion. We have one more opportunity tonight to do that, one more chance to show what heart is all about. The Dallas Cowboys are waiting out there to kill you. I expect nothing less than for you to win even in your death throes. We have a powerful weapon on our side tonight: there is no tomorrow for most of you. And that makes you very dangerous people. Use it. Everybody laughs politely. He gets high fives from Todd and Rod for Wilkinson's hit. He turns and sees a smiling Annabelle. Shane gives her a guilty wave and then cringes with the pain of just having to lift his arm. On the snap, Butler bashes Cochran's head with his forearm and knocks his helmet off. Then he runs over what he just heard. Shane looks back at Pacifico and makes a decision. The ball is snapped perfectly. Shane catches it and spots it perfectly. Pacifico moves to kick it. And Shane pulls the ball away. Pacifico flies through the air like Snoopy as he kicks nothing but air. He lands hard. Shane jumps to his feet and starts running. He's in shock. The Dallas middle linebacker has recovered and is moving quickly to cut Shane off. But Reese Evans comes out of nowhere and crushes the guy with a flying block. Shane cuts downfield and heads for the end zone with nobody near him, except: For the same safety from the first half who waits for him at the ten. The safety smiles as he takes a bead on Shane. Shane heads right for the guy. He puts his head down and smacks helmets with the safety. The guy goes down and Shane runs over him and into the end zone. He jumps into the air. Shane stands stock-still in the end zone watching the REF call the penalty. He looks sick. Shane walks up to Pacifico who is down. His arm is being immobilized by a team trainer. Shane nods. In his earpiece, he hears McGinty. McGINTY (V.O.) Someday, you can explain what that was all about. We got no <b> </b> kicker, so you gotta take it in. Your pick. You're the leader. Shane leans into the huddle. He looks around the huddle. He studies each face. And then he comes to rest on Brian Murray. Brian's eyes are shining. He doesn't need words here. Everybody puts their hands into the middle. <b> </b>They break the huddle with a roar. Shane nods. On the snap, Shane rolls left. Todd, Rod and Bob are screaming. <b> </b>O'Neil kisses Augustine. Annabelle throws a punch into the air. McGinty is all smiles. Shane walks up to him and they shake hands. Pilachowski and Banes hug. Lee and Andre are hugging and crying. Cochran is on his knees praying. Reese Evans joins him. Wilkinson hugs Jamal. Clifford Franklin, hometown boy, throws himself into the stands where fans mob him. But he slips awkwardly and falls. He grabs his knee and screams. a lot of tools: a quick release. Fast. A scrambler by nature. Good downfield vision. But you got hurt a lot. And worst of all, you never could win the big game. What did you lose the Sugar Bowl by, your senior year? What, forty points? McGINTY A scrambling quarterback is gonna do real well in this new replacement environment. And to tell you the truth, I think I can help you with your biggest problem. McGINTY Courage. I think that Sugar Bowl took it all out of you. There's a beat as Shane looks away. McGINTY Yeah, and it looks like things have been going really well for you since. Shane doesn't meet McGinty's eyes. McGINTY Yeah. No screaming crowds, that's for sure. (pause) You know what separates the winners from the losers? Gettin' back on the horse. The one that kicked you in the teeth. You're still young. You still got bags of talent. If you do well, who knows what will happen when the strike ends? Shane keeps staring out at the water. McGINTY You want me to tell you you're not going to get hurt? You know you will. No doubt about that. But, hell... He leans against the wall of a liquor store. Lou writes quickly on a small pad. After a beat, another passerby leans in and whispers something to Lou. Lou writes quickly again. People in the street are now starting to look up at this old woman screaming "Foreskins!" Louis quickly crosses the street to his apartment house. But at that moment, a soccer ball bounces toward him from where a group of kids are playing in an alley. Out of pure instinct, Lou gives it a mighty boot. We FOLLOW the arc of the ball as it sails DOWN the block. players have now seen the error of their ways and are coming back in <b> </b> droves. Apparently, they have been struck with the realization that it is a blessing to be playing professional football. There is dead silence in the room. Everybody thinks it's over. McGINTY But they had their chance. Now it's your turn. Mister O'Neil and I have agreed to ban all striking players and to continue to go with you guys. There's a beat and then everyone breaks into cheers. Suddenly, the door flies open and a REPORTER and a cameraman step in and start filming. The Reporter shoves a microphone at McGinty. Out in the restaurant, patrons see the players and a few break into "Hail to the Redskins." Suddenly, the whole restaurant starts singing. Shane looks embarrassed. Pacifico stands up on his seat, and conducts the singing. Andre and Jamal hold their lobsters in the air and make them dance to the song. Martel looks very angry. She gives him a bottle of pills. Shane smiles at her. She suddenly grabs him and they kiss big- time. Then she breaks and walks quickly away. Shane doesn't know what to make of this. Shane is running away from three New York Giant defensive linemen. Shane is not even looking for a receiver. He's looking to save his life. Finally, he's caught by a six-foot-five, two hundred and seventy pound defensive end named HANK MORRIS, who throws him down and lands on top of him. Oooof! He does his interview on camera, standing in front of a huge semi-truck. And a big, overweight truck driver stands next to him. The truck driver suddenly pumps his arm and a <b>CACOPHONY OF TRUCK AIR HORNS GO OFF. </b> literally rips the ball out of his hands as he goes down. He's leaning over a groggy Shane on the bench. McGINTY Don't shake your head at me. You are going back in there. You are gonna run the same god damn play, you are gonna throw the ball to Franklin again and this time, he's gonna score. He shoves them under Shane's nose. Shane is suddenly very awake. McGINTY You are the only one in this entire stadium who can do it. Do you understand me? You can do something no one else can do. So, start right here. Start living your destiny. Or give it up for good. Right here. Right now. Shane stares at him. Then he stands up, wobbles and puts on his helmet. Annabelle watches him closely. Nasty-looking linebackers and cornerbacks stare at him. Shane gets an idea. Lamont shifts again. Clifford goes in motion from his flanker position but then changes his mind and goes back the other way. Lamont and Clifford then bump into each other. <b> </b><b>ON PATRIOT DEFENSE </b> They are totally confused now as they try to adjust to the equally confused Redskins. He looks extremely pissed. He turns to hand the ball off to Lamont but Lamont is not there. Shane turns the other way and sees Lamont just standing there looking at him. Shane runs over to him and hands him the ball. Meanwhile, the Patriot defense is going the other direction. Lamont takes off. One cornerback is not taken in. The guy dives for Lamont's legs. We hear a CLANK as the cornerback's HELMET hits Lamont's industrial KNEE BRACE. The guy bounces off and Lamont trots into the end zone. Shane, meanwhile, is looking at McGinty on the sidelines. McGINTY (V.O.) (in Shane's helmet) | Why does O'Neil want Martel instead of Falco for the big game? | Because Falco has blown a big game in the past. |
what he just heard. Shane looks back at Pacifico and makes a decision. The ball is snapped perfectly. Shane catches it and spots it perfectly. Pacifico moves to kick it. And Shane pulls the ball away. Pacifico flies through the air like Snoopy as he kicks nothing but air. He lands hard. Shane jumps to his feet and starts running. He's in shock. The Dallas middle linebacker has recovered and is moving quickly to cut Shane off. But Reese Evans comes out of nowhere and crushes the guy with a flying block. Shane cuts downfield and heads for the end zone with nobody near him, except: For the same safety from the first half who waits for him at the ten. The safety smiles as he takes a bead on Shane. Shane heads right for the guy. He puts his head down and smacks helmets with the safety. The guy goes down and Shane runs over him and into the end zone. He jumps into the air. Shane stands stock-still in the end zone watching the REF call the penalty. He looks sick. Shane walks up to Pacifico who is down. His arm is being immobilized by a team trainer. Shane nods. In his earpiece, he hears McGinty. McGINTY (V.O.) Someday, you can explain what that was all about. We got no <b> </b> kicker, so you gotta take it in. Your pick. You're the leader. Shane leans into the huddle. He looks around the huddle. He studies each face. And then he comes to rest on Brian Murray. Brian's eyes are shining. He doesn't need words here. Everybody puts their hands into the middle. <b> </b>They break the huddle with a roar. Shane nods. On the snap, Shane rolls left. Todd, Rod and Bob are screaming. <b> </b>O'Neil kisses Augustine. Annabelle throws a punch into the air. McGinty is all smiles. Shane walks up to him and they shake hands. Pilachowski and Banes hug. Lee and Andre are hugging and crying. Cochran is on his knees praying. Reese Evans joins him. Wilkinson hugs Jamal. Clifford Franklin, hometown boy, throws himself into the stands where fans mob him. But he slips awkwardly and falls. He grabs his knee and screams. players have now seen the error of their ways and are coming back in <b> </b> droves. Apparently, they have been struck with the realization that it is a blessing to be playing professional football. There is dead silence in the room. Everybody thinks it's over. McGINTY But they had their chance. Now it's your turn. Mister O'Neil and I have agreed to ban all striking players and to continue to go with you guys. There's a beat and then everyone breaks into cheers. Suddenly, the door flies open and a REPORTER and a cameraman step in and start filming. The Reporter shoves a microphone at McGinty. Out in the restaurant, patrons see the players and a few break into "Hail to the Redskins." Suddenly, the whole restaurant starts singing. Shane looks embarrassed. Pacifico stands up on his seat, and conducts the singing. Andre and Jamal hold their lobsters in the air and make them dance to the song. Martel looks very angry. She gives him a bottle of pills. Shane smiles at her. She suddenly grabs him and they kiss big- time. Then she breaks and walks quickly away. Shane doesn't know what to make of this. Shane is running away from three New York Giant defensive linemen. Shane is not even looking for a receiver. He's looking to save his life. Finally, he's caught by a six-foot-five, two hundred and seventy pound defensive end named HANK MORRIS, who throws him down and lands on top of him. Oooof! He does his interview on camera, standing in front of a huge semi-truck. And a big, overweight truck driver stands next to him. The truck driver suddenly pumps his arm and a <b>CACOPHONY OF TRUCK AIR HORNS GO OFF. </b> It's deafening but Lindell smiles through it all. They break. Shane sets up in the shotgun. On the snap, Lee and Cochran double-team Morris. Morris slaps Cochran away like, well, a rag doll, and then confronts the Sumo master. He bumps stomachs with Lee. Lee flies through the air and lands on his ass. In order to get up, Morris puts one huge hand on Shane's helmet and pushes himself up. Shane moans as his face guard digs a four- inch hole in the turf. He's talking into his mike. McGINTY You want a time-out? That looks like it hurt. Shane gets up. He's got a huge piece of turf stuck in his face guard so that for a beat, we can't even see him. Then he pulls out the dirt and grass, and we see Shane really pissed off for the first time. Everyone gathers around. They break the huddle. Shane goes into a shotgun. Shane does a three-step drop from the shotgun. Cochran and Lee hit out on either side of Morris, giving him a clear shot at Shane. Morris comes hard and fast. Shane looks downfield, winds up, turns and fires the ball at Morris's head. The ball goes like a bullet for five feet and then sticks like a dart in Morris's face guard. For a moment, Morris is blinded. And Shane is dumbfounded. Then Morris starts to wrestle the ball out of his mask. Andre and Jamal grab onto Morris who starts stumbling down field with the ball still stuck in his helmet. But Morris won't go down. He's still trying to pry the ball loose as he throws off Jamal. Then he shakes off Andre. OUT OF THE SILENCE, we suddenly hear the hit and the crowd roar. down his Bible. McGINTY No. No praying. That's the problem with professional sports today: too much god damn praying. Five hundred dollar fine to the first man I hear praying. McGinty turns and bums an egg from Mickey and walks to the middle of the locker room. He eats the egg as he turns slowly and takes in his players. McGINTY A lot of people are waiting for you to fall on your asses today. And guess what? You're going to. But I don't give a shit if you look funny out there. Or if you miss a block, or drop a pass, or trip over your own dick. This is professional. And the difference between professional and amateur, between playing for the Washington Redskins and Michigan State is simply... money. You are being paid to win. Not just to play. Not just to learn how to be good sports. Not for the alumni. You are being paid to win. I don't care how the fuck you do it. But I'm demanding it. Because those guys whose place you're taking have forgotten that simple fact. So, go win it. He walks away. The players get up and start <b> </b>moving. Annabelle and her fellow twenty cheerleaders are lined up on either side of the bobbing helmet, waiting for the players. Suddenly, a CANNON goes off with a stomach- resounding BOOM! Shane jumps. Bateman takes off at a dead run out of the tunnel and into the helmet. Girls fly left and right. One girl is knocked out of her shoes. The rest of the team walks unceremoniously out of the helmet and onto the field. The ball is placed on the twenty as Shane and the offense walk out onto the field. enters in street clothes and starts undressing quickly. He looks worried. Shane watches Lou for a beat. We see Shane shift his upper body and grimace. McGinty enters and pulls Shane aside. McGINTY Congratulations. It's official. You're staying on after the strike. Shane smiles in spite of the pain. McGINTY It's probably better that you not say anything to the rest of the guys until after the game. Okay? McGinty walks into the middle of the locker room and goes into pre-game speech mode. McGINTY Alright, listen up. The strike is just about history. By tomorrow, you will no longer be Redskins. It's important that you leave here, however, with the knowledge that you have made a difference in your own life, in the owner's life -- or what's left of it -- and especially the fans'. You have proven to a skeptical America that sports is not about contracts, or agents or shoe deals. Sports is about rising <b> </b> to the occasion. We have one more opportunity tonight to do that, one more chance to show what heart is all about. The Dallas Cowboys are waiting out there to kill you. I expect nothing less than for you to win even in your death throes. We have a powerful weapon on our side tonight: there is no tomorrow for most of you. And that makes you very dangerous people. Use it. Everybody laughs politely. He gets high fives from Todd and Rod for Wilkinson's hit. He turns and sees a smiling Annabelle. Shane gives her a guilty wave and then cringes with the pain of just having to lift his arm. On the snap, Butler bashes Cochran's head with his forearm and knocks his helmet off. Then he runs over | Why do the replacement team get into a fight at a bar? | Because they are taunted by the actual Sentinel players. |
always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely | What part of the mind does Wells find "submissive"? | The past part |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. to a knowledge of coming things as clear, as universally convincing, and infinitely more important to mankind than the clear vision of the past that geology has opened to us during the nineteenth century? Let us grant that anything to correspond with the memory, anything having the same relation to the future that memory has to the past, is out of the question. We cannot imagine, of course, that we can ever know any personal future to correspond with our personal past, or any traditional future to correspond with our traditional past; but the possibility of an inductive future to correspond with that great inductive past of geology and archæology is an altogether different thing. I must confess that I believe quite firmly that an inductive knowledge of a great number of things in the future is becoming a human possibility. I believe that the time is drawing near when it will be possible to suggest a systematic exploration of the future. And you must not judge the practicability of this enterprise by the failures of the past. So far nothing has been attempted, so far no first-class mind has ever focused itself upon these issues; but suppose the laws of social and political development, for example, were given as many brains, were given as much attention, criticism, and discussion as we have given to the laws of chemical combination during the last fifty years, what might we not expect? To the popular mind of to-day there is something very difficult in such a suggestion, soberly made. But here, in this institution (the Royal Institution of London) which has watched for a whole century over the splendid adolescence of science, and where the spirit of science is surely understood, you will know that as a matter of fact prophecy has | What part of the mind does Wells find "masterful"? | The future part |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its | What two main divisions exist within the mind according to Wells? | One that attches to the past and one that attaches to the future. |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in this trust in forces the more one will believe in the possibility of a reasoned inductive view of the future that will serve us in politics, in morals, in social contrivances, and in a thousand spacious ways. And even those who take the most extreme and personal and melodramatic view of the ways of human destiny, who see life as a tissue of fairy godmother births and accidental meetings and promises and jealousies, will, I suppose, admit there comes a limit to these things--that at last personality dies away and the greater forces come to their own. The great man, however great he be, cannot set back the whole scheme of things; what he does in right and reason will remain, and what he does against the greater creative forces will perish. We cannot foresee him; let us grant that. His personal difference, the splendor of his effect, his dramatic arrangement of events will be his own--in other words, we cannot estimate for accidents and accelerations and delays; but if only we throw our web of generalization wide enough, if only we spin our rope of induction strong enough, the final result of the great man, his ultimate surviving consequences, will come within our net. Such, then, is the sort of knowledge of the future that I believe is attainable and worth attaining. I believe that the deliberate direction of historical study and of economic and social study toward the future and an increasing reference, a deliberate and courageous reference, to the future in moral and religious discussion, would be enormously stimulating and enormously profitable to our intellectual life. I have done my best to suggest to you that such an enterprise is now a serious and practicable undertaking. But at the risk of repetition I would call your attention | What human aspects does Wells believe reach "divergent and incompatible" outcomes? | The past and future parts of the mind |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future interpretation into which new things are thrust, a collection of standards, a sort of bed of King Og, to which all new expressions must be lopped or stretched? Our conveniences, like our thoughts, are all retrospective. We travel on roads so narrow that they suffocate our traffic; we live in uncomfortable, inconvenient, life-wasting houses out of a love of familiar shapes and familiar customs and a dread of strangeness; all our public affairs are cramped by local boundaries impossibly restricted and small. Our clothing, our habits of speech, our spelling, our weights and measures, our coinage, our religious and political theories, all witness to the binding power of the past upon our minds. Yet we do not serve the past as the Chinese have done. There are degrees. We do not worship our ancestors or prescribe a rigid local costume; we dare to enlarge our stock of knowledge, and we qualify the classics with occasional adventures into original thought. Compared with the Chinese we are distinctly aware of the future. But compared with what we might be, the past is all our world. The reason why the retrospective habit, the legal habit, is so dominant, and always has been so predominant, is of course a perfectly obvious one. We follow a fundamental human principle and take what we can get. All people believe the past is certain, defined, and knowable, and only a few people believe that it is possible to know anything about the future. Man has acquired the habit of going to the past because it was the line of least resistance for his mind. While a certain variable portion of the past is serviceable matter for knowledge in the case of everyone, the future is, to a mind without an imagination trained in scientific habits of thought, determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its this trust in forces the more one will believe in the possibility of a reasoned inductive view of the future that will serve us in politics, in morals, in social contrivances, and in a thousand spacious ways. And even those who take the most extreme and personal and melodramatic view of the ways of human destiny, who see life as a tissue of fairy godmother births and accidental meetings and promises and jealousies, will, I suppose, admit there comes a limit to these things--that at last personality dies away and the greater forces come to their own. The great man, however great he be, cannot set back the whole scheme of things; what he does in right and reason will remain, and what he does against the greater creative forces will perish. We cannot foresee him; let us grant that. His personal difference, the splendor of his effect, his dramatic arrangement of events will be his own--in other words, we cannot estimate for accidents and accelerations and delays; but if only we throw our web of generalization wide enough, if only we spin our rope of induction strong enough, the final result of the great man, his ultimate surviving consequences, will come within our net. Such, then, is the sort of knowledge of the future that I believe is attainable and worth attaining. I believe that the deliberate direction of historical study and of economic and social study toward the future and an increasing reference, a deliberate and courageous reference, to the future in moral and religious discussion, would be enormously stimulating and enormously profitable to our intellectual life. I have done my best to suggest to you that such an enterprise is now a serious and practicable undertaking. But at the risk of repetition I would call your attention | Why does Wells feel the past dominates publc affairs and morality? | The past is more knowable than the future |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely to the essential difference that must always hold between our attainable knowledge of the future and our existing knowledge of the past. The portion of the past that is brightest and most real to each of us is the individual past--the personal memory. The portion of the future that must remain darkest and least accessible is the individual future. Scientific prophecy will not be fortune-telling, whatever else it may be. Those excellent people who cast horoscopes, those illegal fashionable palm-reading ladies who abound so much to-day, in whom nobody is so foolish as to believe, and to whom everybody is foolish enough to go, need fear no competition from the scientific prophets. The knowledge of the future we may hope to gain will be general and not individual; it will be no sort of knowledge that will either hamper us in the exercise of our individual free will or relieve us of our personal responsibility. And now, how far is it possible at the present time to speculate on the particular outline the future will assume when it is investigated in this way? It is interesting, before we answer that question, to take into account the speculations of a certain sect and culture of people who already, before the middle of last century, had set their faces toward the future as the justifying explanation of the present. These were the positivists, whose position is still most eloquently maintained and displayed by Mr. Frederic Harrison, in spite of the great expansion of the human outlook that has occurred since Comte. This fact that man is not final is the great unmanageable, disturbing fact that arises upon us in the scientific discovery of the future, and to my mind, at any rate, the question what is to come after man is the | What does Wells feel science demonstrates about the future mind? | An inductive knowledge of many things in the future is a possiblity |
non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its | What question does Wells feel is the most important to consider? | What comes after man |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future the birth and coming of men of exceptional force and genius is to hope incredibly, and if, indeed, such exceptional men do as much as they seem to do in warping the path of humanity, our utmost prophetic limit in human affairs is a conditional sort of prophecy. If people do so and so, we can say, then such and such results will follow, and we must admit that that is our limit. But everybody does not believe in the importance of the leading man. There are those who will say that the whole world is different by reason of Napoleon. There are those who will say that the world of to-day would be very much as it is now if Napoleon had never been born. Other men would have arisen to make Napoleon's conquests and codify the law, redistribute the worn-out boundaries of Europe and achieve all those changes which we so readily ascribe to Napoleon's will alone. There are those who believe entirely in the individual man and those who believe entirely in the forces behind the individual man, and for my own part I must confess myself a rather extreme case of the latter kind. I must confess I believe that if by some juggling with space and time Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, Edward IV., William the Conqueror, Lord Rosebery, and Robert Burns had all been changed at birth it would not have produced any serious dislocation of the course of destiny. I believe that these great men of ours are no more than images and symbols and instruments taken, as it were, haphazard by the incessant and consistent forces behind them; they are the pen-nibs Fate has used for her writing, the diamonds upon the drill that pierces through the rock. And the more one inclines to they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely | What does Wells believe influences individuals the most? | The forces behind individuals |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future interpretation into which new things are thrust, a collection of standards, a sort of bed of King Og, to which all new expressions must be lopped or stretched? Our conveniences, like our thoughts, are all retrospective. We travel on roads so narrow that they suffocate our traffic; we live in uncomfortable, inconvenient, life-wasting houses out of a love of familiar shapes and familiar customs and a dread of strangeness; all our public affairs are cramped by local boundaries impossibly restricted and small. Our clothing, our habits of speech, our spelling, our weights and measures, our coinage, our religious and political theories, all witness to the binding power of the past upon our minds. Yet we do not serve the past as the Chinese have done. There are degrees. We do not worship our ancestors or prescribe a rigid local costume; we dare to enlarge our stock of knowledge, and we qualify the classics with occasional adventures into original thought. Compared with the Chinese we are distinctly aware of the future. But compared with what we might be, the past is all our world. The reason why the retrospective habit, the legal habit, is so dominant, and always has been so predominant, is of course a perfectly obvious one. We follow a fundamental human principle and take what we can get. All people believe the past is certain, defined, and knowable, and only a few people believe that it is possible to know anything about the future. Man has acquired the habit of going to the past because it was the line of least resistance for his mind. While a certain variable portion of the past is serviceable matter for knowledge in the case of everyone, the future is, to a mind without an imagination trained in scientific habits of thought, they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely | What type of knowledge about the future does Wells believe is attainable? | Inductive knowledge |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell the birth and coming of men of exceptional force and genius is to hope incredibly, and if, indeed, such exceptional men do as much as they seem to do in warping the path of humanity, our utmost prophetic limit in human affairs is a conditional sort of prophecy. If people do so and so, we can say, then such and such results will follow, and we must admit that that is our limit. But everybody does not believe in the importance of the leading man. There are those who will say that the whole world is different by reason of Napoleon. There are those who will say that the world of to-day would be very much as it is now if Napoleon had never been born. Other men would have arisen to make Napoleon's conquests and codify the law, redistribute the worn-out boundaries of Europe and achieve all those changes which we so readily ascribe to Napoleon's will alone. There are those who believe entirely in the individual man and those who believe entirely in the forces behind the individual man, and for my own part I must confess myself a rather extreme case of the latter kind. I must confess I believe that if by some juggling with space and time Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, Edward IV., William the Conqueror, Lord Rosebery, and Robert Burns had all been changed at birth it would not have produced any serious dislocation of the course of destiny. I believe that these great men of ours are no more than images and symbols and instruments taken, as it were, haphazard by the incessant and consistent forces behind them; they are the pen-nibs Fate has used for her writing, the diamonds upon the drill that pierces through the rock. And the more one inclines to always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely | How does Wells feel about fortune telling? | He does not believe in it |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its interpretation into which new things are thrust, a collection of standards, a sort of bed of King Og, to which all new expressions must be lopped or stretched? Our conveniences, like our thoughts, are all retrospective. We travel on roads so narrow that they suffocate our traffic; we live in uncomfortable, inconvenient, life-wasting houses out of a love of familiar shapes and familiar customs and a dread of strangeness; all our public affairs are cramped by local boundaries impossibly restricted and small. Our clothing, our habits of speech, our spelling, our weights and measures, our coinage, our religious and political theories, all witness to the binding power of the past upon our minds. Yet we do not serve the past as the Chinese have done. There are degrees. We do not worship our ancestors or prescribe a rigid local costume; we dare to enlarge our stock of knowledge, and we qualify the classics with occasional adventures into original thought. Compared with the Chinese we are distinctly aware of the future. But compared with what we might be, the past is all our world. The reason why the retrospective habit, the legal habit, is so dominant, and always has been so predominant, is of course a perfectly obvious one. We follow a fundamental human principle and take what we can get. All people believe the past is certain, defined, and knowable, and only a few people believe that it is possible to know anything about the future. Man has acquired the habit of going to the past because it was the line of least resistance for his mind. While a certain variable portion of the past is serviceable matter for knowledge in the case of everyone, the future is, to a mind without an imagination trained in scientific habits of thought, of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. | What does Wlells distinguish between? | The past orientated mind. |
always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely interpretation into which new things are thrust, a collection of standards, a sort of bed of King Og, to which all new expressions must be lopped or stretched? Our conveniences, like our thoughts, are all retrospective. We travel on roads so narrow that they suffocate our traffic; we live in uncomfortable, inconvenient, life-wasting houses out of a love of familiar shapes and familiar customs and a dread of strangeness; all our public affairs are cramped by local boundaries impossibly restricted and small. Our clothing, our habits of speech, our spelling, our weights and measures, our coinage, our religious and political theories, all witness to the binding power of the past upon our minds. Yet we do not serve the past as the Chinese have done. There are degrees. We do not worship our ancestors or prescribe a rigid local costume; we dare to enlarge our stock of knowledge, and we qualify the classics with occasional adventures into original thought. Compared with the Chinese we are distinctly aware of the future. But compared with what we might be, the past is all our world. The reason why the retrospective habit, the legal habit, is so dominant, and always has been so predominant, is of course a perfectly obvious one. We follow a fundamental human principle and take what we can get. All people believe the past is certain, defined, and knowable, and only a few people believe that it is possible to know anything about the future. Man has acquired the habit of going to the past because it was the line of least resistance for his mind. While a certain variable portion of the past is serviceable matter for knowledge in the case of everyone, the future is, to a mind without an imagination trained in scientific habits of thought, the birth and coming of men of exceptional force and genius is to hope incredibly, and if, indeed, such exceptional men do as much as they seem to do in warping the path of humanity, our utmost prophetic limit in human affairs is a conditional sort of prophecy. If people do so and so, we can say, then such and such results will follow, and we must admit that that is our limit. But everybody does not believe in the importance of the leading man. There are those who will say that the whole world is different by reason of Napoleon. There are those who will say that the world of to-day would be very much as it is now if Napoleon had never been born. Other men would have arisen to make Napoleon's conquests and codify the law, redistribute the worn-out boundaries of Europe and achieve all those changes which we so readily ascribe to Napoleon's will alone. There are those who believe entirely in the individual man and those who believe entirely in the forces behind the individual man, and for my own part I must confess myself a rather extreme case of the latter kind. I must confess I believe that if by some juggling with space and time Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, Edward IV., William the Conqueror, Lord Rosebery, and Robert Burns had all been changed at birth it would not have produced any serious dislocation of the course of destiny. I believe that these great men of ours are no more than images and symbols and instruments taken, as it were, haphazard by the incessant and consistent forces behind them; they are the pen-nibs Fate has used for her writing, the diamonds upon the drill that pierces through the rock. And the more one inclines to | What is one difference between the two forms? | One is active and one is passive |
always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its | What is reached by these two types? | Divergent and incompatible consequences |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its | What has science made knowledgeable? | a distant past |
always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely the birth and coming of men of exceptional force and genius is to hope incredibly, and if, indeed, such exceptional men do as much as they seem to do in warping the path of humanity, our utmost prophetic limit in human affairs is a conditional sort of prophecy. If people do so and so, we can say, then such and such results will follow, and we must admit that that is our limit. But everybody does not believe in the importance of the leading man. There are those who will say that the whole world is different by reason of Napoleon. There are those who will say that the world of to-day would be very much as it is now if Napoleon had never been born. Other men would have arisen to make Napoleon's conquests and codify the law, redistribute the worn-out boundaries of Europe and achieve all those changes which we so readily ascribe to Napoleon's will alone. There are those who believe entirely in the individual man and those who believe entirely in the forces behind the individual man, and for my own part I must confess myself a rather extreme case of the latter kind. I must confess I believe that if by some juggling with space and time Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, Edward IV., William the Conqueror, Lord Rosebery, and Robert Burns had all been changed at birth it would not have produced any serious dislocation of the course of destiny. I believe that these great men of ours are no more than images and symbols and instruments taken, as it were, haphazard by the incessant and consistent forces behind them; they are the pen-nibs Fate has used for her writing, the diamonds upon the drill that pierces through the rock. And the more one inclines to | What complicates the problem? | Unpredictability |
always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its | What type of telling will never be possible? | Fortune telling |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely | What does wells claim about the future knowledge? | It is possible to induct |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely | What does wells speculate about finally ? | What is to come after man |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its | What does wells consider his final question? | The most insoluble question in the world |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely | What does wells conclude with? | A statement of personal faith. |
they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely interpretation into which new things are thrust, a collection of standards, a sort of bed of King Og, to which all new expressions must be lopped or stretched? Our conveniences, like our thoughts, are all retrospective. We travel on roads so narrow that they suffocate our traffic; we live in uncomfortable, inconvenient, life-wasting houses out of a love of familiar shapes and familiar customs and a dread of strangeness; all our public affairs are cramped by local boundaries impossibly restricted and small. Our clothing, our habits of speech, our spelling, our weights and measures, our coinage, our religious and political theories, all witness to the binding power of the past upon our minds. Yet we do not serve the past as the Chinese have done. There are degrees. We do not worship our ancestors or prescribe a rigid local costume; we dare to enlarge our stock of knowledge, and we qualify the classics with occasional adventures into original thought. Compared with the Chinese we are distinctly aware of the future. But compared with what we might be, the past is all our world. The reason why the retrospective habit, the legal habit, is so dominant, and always has been so predominant, is of course a perfectly obvious one. We follow a fundamental human principle and take what we can get. All people believe the past is certain, defined, and knowable, and only a few people believe that it is possible to know anything about the future. Man has acquired the habit of going to the past because it was the line of least resistance for his mind. While a certain variable portion of the past is serviceable matter for knowledge in the case of everyone, the future is, to a mind without an imagination trained in scientific habits of thought, always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its | Who stated the discovery of future ? | Wells. |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. | Between which factors did wells started distinguish with ? | past and future |
always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell the birth and coming of men of exceptional force and genius is to hope incredibly, and if, indeed, such exceptional men do as much as they seem to do in warping the path of humanity, our utmost prophetic limit in human affairs is a conditional sort of prophecy. If people do so and so, we can say, then such and such results will follow, and we must admit that that is our limit. But everybody does not believe in the importance of the leading man. There are those who will say that the whole world is different by reason of Napoleon. There are those who will say that the world of to-day would be very much as it is now if Napoleon had never been born. Other men would have arisen to make Napoleon's conquests and codify the law, redistribute the worn-out boundaries of Europe and achieve all those changes which we so readily ascribe to Napoleon's will alone. There are those who believe entirely in the individual man and those who believe entirely in the forces behind the individual man, and for my own part I must confess myself a rather extreme case of the latter kind. I must confess I believe that if by some juggling with space and time Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, Edward IV., William the Conqueror, Lord Rosebery, and Robert Burns had all been changed at birth it would not have produced any serious dislocation of the course of destiny. I believe that these great men of ours are no more than images and symbols and instruments taken, as it were, haphazard by the incessant and consistent forces behind them; they are the pen-nibs Fate has used for her writing, the diamonds upon the drill that pierces through the rock. And the more one inclines to of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. interpretation into which new things are thrust, a collection of standards, a sort of bed of King Og, to which all new expressions must be lopped or stretched? Our conveniences, like our thoughts, are all retrospective. We travel on roads so narrow that they suffocate our traffic; we live in uncomfortable, inconvenient, life-wasting houses out of a love of familiar shapes and familiar customs and a dread of strangeness; all our public affairs are cramped by local boundaries impossibly restricted and small. Our clothing, our habits of speech, our spelling, our weights and measures, our coinage, our religious and political theories, all witness to the binding power of the past upon our minds. Yet we do not serve the past as the Chinese have done. There are degrees. We do not worship our ancestors or prescribe a rigid local costume; we dare to enlarge our stock of knowledge, and we qualify the classics with occasional adventures into original thought. Compared with the Chinese we are distinctly aware of the future. But compared with what we might be, the past is all our world. The reason why the retrospective habit, the legal habit, is so dominant, and always has been so predominant, is of course a perfectly obvious one. We follow a fundamental human principle and take what we can get. All people believe the past is certain, defined, and knowable, and only a few people believe that it is possible to know anything about the future. Man has acquired the habit of going to the past because it was the line of least resistance for his mind. While a certain variable portion of the past is serviceable matter for knowledge in the case of everyone, the future is, to a mind without an imagination trained in scientific habits of thought, | Which adjectives Well attributes to the former ? | Legal, passive and oriental. |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely the birth and coming of men of exceptional force and genius is to hope incredibly, and if, indeed, such exceptional men do as much as they seem to do in warping the path of humanity, our utmost prophetic limit in human affairs is a conditional sort of prophecy. If people do so and so, we can say, then such and such results will follow, and we must admit that that is our limit. But everybody does not believe in the importance of the leading man. There are those who will say that the whole world is different by reason of Napoleon. There are those who will say that the world of to-day would be very much as it is now if Napoleon had never been born. Other men would have arisen to make Napoleon's conquests and codify the law, redistribute the worn-out boundaries of Europe and achieve all those changes which we so readily ascribe to Napoleon's will alone. There are those who believe entirely in the individual man and those who believe entirely in the forces behind the individual man, and for my own part I must confess myself a rather extreme case of the latter kind. I must confess I believe that if by some juggling with space and time Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, Edward IV., William the Conqueror, Lord Rosebery, and Robert Burns had all been changed at birth it would not have produced any serious dislocation of the course of destiny. I believe that these great men of ours are no more than images and symbols and instruments taken, as it were, haphazard by the incessant and consistent forces behind them; they are the pen-nibs Fate has used for her writing, the diamonds upon the drill that pierces through the rock. And the more one inclines to determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its | Which two factors are not possible ? | Personal prophecy and fortune telling. |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. so unscientific a science as economics there have been forecasts. And if I am right in saying that science aims at prophecy, and if the specialist in each science is in fact doing his best now to prophesy within the limits of his field, what is there to stand in the way of our building up this growing body of forecast into an ordered picture of the future that will be just as certain, just as strictly science, and perhaps just as detailed as the picture that has been built up within the last hundred years of the geological past? Well, so far and until we bring the prophecy down to the affairs of man and his children, it is just as possible to carry induction forward as back; it is just as simple and sure to work out the changing orbit of the earth in the future until the tidal drag hauls one unchanging face at last toward the sun as it is to work back to its blazing and molten past. Until man comes in, the inductive future is as real and convincing as the inductive past. But inorganic forces are the smaller part and the minor interest in this concern. Directly man becomes a factor the nature of the problem changes, and our whole present interest centers on the question whether man is, indeed, individually and collectively incalculable, a new element which entirely alters the nature of our inquiry and stamps it at once as vain and hopeless, or whether his presence complicates, but does not alter, the essential nature of the induction. How far may we hope to get trustworthy inductions about the future of man? Well, I think, on the whole, we are inclined to underrate our chance of certainties in the future, just as | Which part of human behavior complicates the problem ? | Unpredictability. |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely determined by the past, you say; but then everybody believes also that the present determines the future. Are we simply separating and contrasting two sides of everybody's opinion? To which one replies that we are not discussing what we know and believe about the relations of past, present, and future, or of the relation of cause and effect to each other in time. We all know the present depends for its causes on the past, and the future depends for its causes upon the present. But this discussion concerns the way in which we approach things upon this common ground of knowledge and belief. We may all know there is an east and a west, but if some of us always approach and look at things from the west, if some of us always approach and look at things from the east, and if others again wander about with a pretty disregard of direction, looking at things as chance determines, some of us will get to a westward conclusion of this journey, and some of us will get to an eastward conclusion, and some of us will get to no definite conclusion at all about all sorts of important matters. And yet those who are travelling east, and those who are travelling west, and those who are wandering haphazard, may be all upon the same ground of belief and statement and amid the same assembly of proven facts. Precisely the same thing, divergence of result, will happen if you always approach things from the point of view of their causes, or if you approach them always with a view to their probable effects. And in several very important groups of human affairs it is possible to show quite clearly just how widely apart the two methods, pursued each in its of life and developing an attitude of appreciation that may make possible the wise and earnest facing of the deeps, dark or beautiful, in the life of the personal spirit.--_From the Editor's Introduction to the Series, printed in full in "The Use of the Margin."_ THE SIXTH SENSE. Its cultivation and use. By Charles H. Brent By Charles F. Dole HUMAN EQUIPMENT. Its use and abuse. By Edward Howard Griggs By Edward Howard Griggs By Thomas Wentworth Higginson SELF-MEASUREMENT. A scale of human values with directions for personal application. By William DeWitt Hyde THE SUPER RACE. An American problem. By Simon Nelson Patten By Edward Alsworth Ross Each 50 cents net; by mail, 55 cents 225 Fifth Avenue New York Transcriber's note: This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except that obvious printer's errors have been corrected. | What did Wells analyze ? | The spheres of mortality and public affairs. |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in the birth and coming of men of exceptional force and genius is to hope incredibly, and if, indeed, such exceptional men do as much as they seem to do in warping the path of humanity, our utmost prophetic limit in human affairs is a conditional sort of prophecy. If people do so and so, we can say, then such and such results will follow, and we must admit that that is our limit. But everybody does not believe in the importance of the leading man. There are those who will say that the whole world is different by reason of Napoleon. There are those who will say that the world of to-day would be very much as it is now if Napoleon had never been born. Other men would have arisen to make Napoleon's conquests and codify the law, redistribute the worn-out boundaries of Europe and achieve all those changes which we so readily ascribe to Napoleon's will alone. There are those who believe entirely in the individual man and those who believe entirely in the forces behind the individual man, and for my own part I must confess myself a rather extreme case of the latter kind. I must confess I believe that if by some juggling with space and time Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, Edward IV., William the Conqueror, Lord Rosebery, and Robert Burns had all been changed at birth it would not have produced any serious dislocation of the course of destiny. I believe that these great men of ours are no more than images and symbols and instruments taken, as it were, haphazard by the incessant and consistent forces behind them; they are the pen-nibs Fate has used for her writing, the diamonds upon the drill that pierces through the rock. And the more one inclines to they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future | What does well tell about personal prophecy ? | He believes that specific personal prophecy will never be possible. |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell always been inseparably associated with the idea of scientific research. The popular idea of scientific investigation is a vehement, aimless collection of little facts, collected as a bower bird collects shells and pebbles, in methodical little rows, and out of this process, in some manner unknown to the popular mind, certain conjuring tricks--the celebrated "wonders of science"--in a sort of accidental way emerge. The popular conception of all discovery is accident. But you will know that the essential thing in the scientific process is not the collection of facts, but the analysis of facts. Facts are the raw material and not the substance of science. It is analysis that has given us all ordered knowledge, and you know that the aim and the test and the justification of the scientific process is not a marketable conjuring trick, but prophecy. Until a scientific theory yields confident forecasts you know it is unsound and tentative; it is mere theorizing, as evanescent as art talk or the phantoms politicians talk about. The splendid body of gravitational astronomy, for example, establishes itself upon the certain forecast of stellar movements, and you would absolutely refuse to believe its amazing assertions if it were not for these same unerring forecasts. The whole body of medical science aims, and claims the ability, to diagnose. Meteorology constantly and persistently aims at prophecy, and it will never stand in a place of honor until it can certainly foretell. The chemist forecasts elements before he meets them--it is very properly his boast--and the splendid manner in which the mind of Clerk Maxwell reached in front of all experiments and foretold those things that Marconi has materialized is familiar to us all. All applied mathematics resolves into computation to foretell things which otherwise can only be determined by trial. Even in non-existent. All our minds are made of memories. In our memories each of us has something that without any special training whatever will go back into the past and grip firmly and convincingly all sorts of workable facts, sometimes more convincingly than firmly. But the imagination, unless it is strengthened by a very sound training in the laws of causation, wanders like a lost child in the blankness of things to come and returns empty. Many people believe, therefore, that there can be no sort of certainty about the future. You can know no more about the future, I was recently assured by a friend, than you can know which way a kitten will jump next. And to all who hold that view, who regard the future as a perpetual source of convulsive surprises, as an impenetrable, incurable, perpetual blankness, it is right and reasonable to derive such values as it is necessary to attach to things from the events that have certainly happened with regard to them. It is our ignorance of the future and our persuasion that that ignorance is absolutely incurable that alone gives the past its enormous predominance in our thoughts. But through the ages, the long unbroken succession of fortune-tellers--and they flourish still--witnesses to the perpetually smoldering feeling that after all there may be a better sort of knowledge--a more serviceable sort of knowledge than that we now possess. On the whole there is something sympathetic for the dupe of the fortune-teller in the spirit of modern science; it is one of the persuasions that come into one's mind, as one assimilates the broad conception of science, that the adequacy of causation is universal; that in absolute fact--if not in that little bubble of relative fact which constitutes the individual life--in absolute fact the future never die again. Do not misunderstand me when I speak of the greatness of human destiny. If I may speak quite openly to you, I will confess that, considered as a final product, I do not think very much of myself or (saving your presence) my fellow-creatures. I do not think I could possibly join in the worship of humanity with any gravity or sincerity. Think of it! Think of the positive facts. There are surely moods for all of us when one can feel Swift's amazement that such a being should deal in pride. There are moods when one can join in the laughter of Democritus; and they would come oftener were not the spectacle of human littleness so abundantly shot with pain. But it is not only with pain that the world is shot--it is shot with promise. Small as our vanity and carnality make us, there has been a day of still smaller things. It is the long ascent of the past that gives the lie to our despair. We know now that all the blood and passion of our life were represented in the Carboniferous time by something--something, perhaps, cold-blooded and with a clammy skin, that lurked between air and water, and fled before the giant amphibia of those days. For all the folly, blindness, and pain of our lives, we have come some way from that. And the distance we have travelled gives us some earnest of the way we have yet to go. Why should things cease at man? Why should not this rising curve rise yet more steeply and swiftly? There are many things to suggest that we are now in a phase of rapid and unprecedented development. The conditions under which men live are changing with an ever-increasing rapidity, and, so far interpretation into which new things are thrust, a collection of standards, a sort of bed of King Og, to which all new expressions must be lopped or stretched? Our conveniences, like our thoughts, are all retrospective. We travel on roads so narrow that they suffocate our traffic; we live in uncomfortable, inconvenient, life-wasting houses out of a love of familiar shapes and familiar customs and a dread of strangeness; all our public affairs are cramped by local boundaries impossibly restricted and small. Our clothing, our habits of speech, our spelling, our weights and measures, our coinage, our religious and political theories, all witness to the binding power of the past upon our minds. Yet we do not serve the past as the Chinese have done. There are degrees. We do not worship our ancestors or prescribe a rigid local costume; we dare to enlarge our stock of knowledge, and we qualify the classics with occasional adventures into original thought. Compared with the Chinese we are distinctly aware of the future. But compared with what we might be, the past is all our world. The reason why the retrospective habit, the legal habit, is so dominant, and always has been so predominant, is of course a perfectly obvious one. We follow a fundamental human principle and take what we can get. All people believe the past is certain, defined, and knowable, and only a few people believe that it is possible to know anything about the future. Man has acquired the habit of going to the past because it was the line of least resistance for his mind. While a certain variable portion of the past is serviceable matter for knowledge in the case of everyone, the future is, to a mind without an imagination trained in scientific habits of thought, | What does he tell about modern science ? | The relentless systematic criticism of phenomena. |
the heap as a whole. And further, if you pass that sand through a series of shoots and finally drop it some distance to the ground, you will be able to foretell that grains of a certain sort of form and size will for the most part be found in one part of the heap and grains of another sort of form and size will be found in another part of the heap. In such a case, you see, the thing as a whole may be simpler than its component parts, and this I submit is also the case in many human affairs. So that because the individual future eludes us completely that is no reason why we should not aspire to, and discover and use, safe and serviceable, generalizations upon countless important issues in the human destiny. But there is a very grave and important-looking difference between a load of sand and a multitude of human beings, and this I must face and examine. Our thoughts and wills and emotions are contagious. An exceptional sort of sand grain, a sand grain that was exceptionally big and heavy, for example, exerts no influence worth considering upon any other of the sand grains in the load. They will fall and roll and heap themselves just the same whether that exceptional grain is with them or not; but an exceptional man comes into the world, a Cæsar or a Napoleon or a Peter the Hermit, and he appears to persuade and convince and compel and take entire possession of the sand heap--I mean the community--and to twist and alter its destinies to an almost unlimited extent. And if this is indeed the case, it reduces our project of an inductive knowledge of the future to very small limits. To hope to foretell they are using two distinct methods in their minds. But for all that they are distinct methods, the method of reference to the past and the method of reference to the future, and their mingling in many of our minds no more abolishes their difference than the existence of piebald horses proves that white is black. I believe that it is not sufficiently recognized just how different in their consequences these two methods are, and just where their difference and where the failure to appreciate their difference takes one. This present time is a period of quite extraordinary uncertainty and indecision upon endless questions--moral questions, æsthetic questions, religious and political questions--upon which we should all of us be happier to feel assured and settled; and a very large amount of this floating uncertainty about these important matters is due to the fact that with most of us these two insufficiently distinguished ways of looking at things are not only present together, but in actual conflict in our minds, in unsuspected conflict; we pass from one to the other heedlessly without any clear recognition of the fundamental difference in conclusions that exists between the two, and we do this with disastrous results to our confidence and to our consistency in dealing with all sorts of things. But before pointing out how divergent these two types or habits of mind really are, it is necessary to meet a possible objection to what has been said. I may put that objection in this form: Is not this distinction between a type of mind that thinks of the past and a type of mind that thinks of the future a sort of hair-splitting, almost like distinguishing between people who have left hands and people who have right? Everybody believes that the present is entirely interpretation into which new things are thrust, a collection of standards, a sort of bed of King Og, to which all new expressions must be lopped or stretched? Our conveniences, like our thoughts, are all retrospective. We travel on roads so narrow that they suffocate our traffic; we live in uncomfortable, inconvenient, life-wasting houses out of a love of familiar shapes and familiar customs and a dread of strangeness; all our public affairs are cramped by local boundaries impossibly restricted and small. Our clothing, our habits of speech, our spelling, our weights and measures, our coinage, our religious and political theories, all witness to the binding power of the past upon our minds. Yet we do not serve the past as the Chinese have done. There are degrees. We do not worship our ancestors or prescribe a rigid local costume; we dare to enlarge our stock of knowledge, and we qualify the classics with occasional adventures into original thought. Compared with the Chinese we are distinctly aware of the future. But compared with what we might be, the past is all our world. The reason why the retrospective habit, the legal habit, is so dominant, and always has been so predominant, is of course a perfectly obvious one. We follow a fundamental human principle and take what we can get. All people believe the past is certain, defined, and knowable, and only a few people believe that it is possible to know anything about the future. Man has acquired the habit of going to the past because it was the line of least resistance for his mind. While a certain variable portion of the past is serviceable matter for knowledge in the case of everyone, the future is, to a mind without an imagination trained in scientific habits of thought, I think we are inclined to be too credulous about the historical past. The vividness of our personal memories, which are the very essence of reality to us, throws a glamor of conviction over tradition and past inductions. But the personal future must in the very nature of things be hidden from us so long as time endures, and this black ignorance at our very feet--this black shadow that corresponds to the brightness of our memories behind us--throws a glamor of uncertainty and unreality over all the future. We are continually surprising ourselves by our own will or want of will; the individualities about us are continually producing the unexpected, and it is very natural to reason that as we can never be precisely sure before the time comes what we are going to do and feel, and if we can never count with absolute certainty upon the acts and happenings even of our most intimate friends, how much the more impossible is it to anticipate the behavior in any direction of states and communities. In reply to which I would advance the suggestion that an increase in the number of human beings considered may positively simplify the case instead of complicating it; that as the individuals increase in number they begin to average out. Let me illustrate this point by a comparison. Angular pit-sand has grains of the most varied shapes. Examined microscopically, you will find all sorts of angles and outlines and variations. Before you look you can say of no particular grain what its outline will be. And if you shoot a load of such sand from a cart you cannot foretell with any certainty where any particular grain will be in the heap that you make; but you can tell--you can tell pretty definitely--the form of purity, take those who follow them. I suppose that three hundred years ago all people who thought at all about moral questions, about questions of Right and Wrong, deduced their rules of conduct absolutely and unreservedly from the past, from some dogmatic injunction, some finally settled decree. The great mass of people do so to-day. It is written, they say. "Thou shalt not steal," for example--that is the sole, complete, sufficient reason why you should not steal, and even to-day there is a strong aversion to admit that there is any relation between the actual consequences of acts and the imperatives of right and wrong. Our lives are to reap the fruits of determinate things, and it is still a fundamental presumption of the established morality that one must do right though the heavens fall. But there are people coming into this world who would refuse to call it Right if it brought the heavens about our heads, however authoritative its sources and sanctions, and this new disposition is, I believe, a growing one. I suppose in all ages people in a timid, hesitating, guilty way have tempered the austerity of a dogmatic moral code by small infractions to secure obviously kindly ends, but it was, I am told, the Jesuits who first deliberately sought to qualify the moral interpretation of acts by a consideration of their results. To-day there are few people who have not more or less clearly discovered the future as a more or less important factor in moral considerations. To-day there is a certain small proportion of people who frankly regard morality as a means to an end, as an overriding of immediate and personal considerations out of regard to something to be attained in the future, and who break away altogether from the idea of | What was about the last part of his text ? | The question that is come after man. |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, St. Luc keeps staring at Tudor's file, shifts something from one side of the folder to the other. Something bothers him. The door to one of the examination rooms opens and Forsythe pops her head around the corner. Forsythe disappears. St. Luc studies Tudor's file. After only a short moment of relative calm, Tudor suddenly contracts into the fetal position, spilling his drink on to the floor. He rolls on to the floor, eyes staring out of his head, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water, tendons in his neck bulging with tension. He soon manages to struggle to his feet, the primary spasm of pain apparently over. He keeps both hands clamped over his mouth as though in a vain attempt to forestall a bout of vomiting and stumbles into the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, Tudor throws himself over the side of the bathtub, knees on the bath mat, head well down into the tub itself. He gags and vomits into the tub and collapses, exhausted, on the floor, mouth bloody. In the tub, a trail of blood-streaked slime leads into the drain. Parkins gets up and follows Forsythe into one of the examination rooms. Forsythe leaves. Parkins chuckles to himself -- 'still life in the old boy yet' kind of feeling -- and begins to undress. He breathes heavily, gasping for air. His expression is a dazed one and he mumbles incoherently. After a moment's rest he rises, opens the glass door, and steps out on to the balcony. Suddenly the muscles of his neck go tense again, his mouth seems to gape open at the extreme limits imposed by muscle and jawbone, his hands fly up to his mouth in an attempt to keep down whatever is about to come up. | What are the effects of the alien transplant? | It causes uncontrollable sexual desire. |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too | What city does Hobbes live? | Montreal. |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, is smiling ecstatically. He puts an arm around Janine, who reacts stiffly. Tudor begins to unbutton his shirt with one hand, his other still gripping Janine tightly. Janine hesitantly helps Tudor remove his shirt and begins to caress him in a perfunctory way, tears in her eyes. Her caresses make Tudor moan with pleasure. Janine's hand sweeps across Tudor's abdomen. She pulls her hand away, startled, obviously having just felt a few of Tudor's lumps. She looks up at Tudor's face with a mixture of horror and wonder in her eyes. Tudor is confused; he doesn't want the caresses to stop. Mrs. Spergazzi lies on an overstuffed couch with her wrist held up for Forsythe to bandage after she coats it with a healing gel. Mrs. Spergazzi wears a suffering-martyr expression. Mr. Spergazzi leans over the back of the couch patting his wife's other hand solicitously. Once inside, St. Luc grabs the poker hanging from an iron hook sunk into the wall of the incinerator, slides open the bolt on the door and opens it. He begins to probe around inside the incinerator oven but can't really see very much. He looks around and notices the superintendent's flashlight stuck up on top of a heating pipe. St. Luc takes down the flashlight, switches it on, and continues his search for the dead parasite. Tudor pulls her back to him, and finally she is forced to batter him away with her fists and slip off the edge of the bed. Tudor glares after her. Tudor's eyes are staring right out of his head and his mouth is wide open. He gasps for breath. He stares at Janine for a second, then buries his face in the blankets, twisting them in his hands and moaning. Janine bursts into tears and turns away swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. trying to figure out what to do next. Suddenly the driver's door of her car is yanked open and the doorman, slavering and drooling, throws himself at her. The doorman forces her down across the front seats of the car and begins to kiss her on the neck and rip her clothes to shreds. He gradually forces himself between her legs. He opens the garage door. Forsythe's screams come echoing through the garage. The doorman is still on top of Forsythe in the front seat of the car. St. Luc pulls the doorman's gun out of its holster and begins smashing away at the doorman with it. The doorman pounds St. Luc in the temple with his fist and lifts himself partially off Forsythe, half turning toward St. Luc, who is staggered by the blow. The doorman's face is covered with blood and drool. Repulsed and terrified, St. Luc fires the gun into the doorman's upper body three times, heedless of the possibility that he might hit Forsythe. The doorman slumps over Forsythe. St. Luc grips the gun and staggers over to the car. He pulls the doorman off Forsythe, who is completely soaked with blood. She has obviously had an externally rough time, but there is nothing to suggest that she has been infected by the doorman. St. Luc shoves her over into the passenger's seat, where she slumps, dazed. He doesn't have to start the car -- it's never been turned off. He slams the shift lever into reverse and backs up, peeling rubber, to the base of the ramp. He puts it into first and begins to accelerate, foot to the floor, toward the garage door. Another car full of residents suddenly careens in front of the door and screeches to a halt, blocking St. Luc, who | How does Hobbes Mistress die? | He kills her? |
panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up He gingerly touches his face, inspecting the damage, shivering and moaning. Still shaking, he turns to leave. Without warning, Tudor leaps up at Rollo with insane energy and bowls him over, pliers in hand. Sitting on Rollo's chest, Tudor smashes away at Rollo's face and head with the pliers, the piece of dead parasite in his mouth dropping on to Rollo's face as he drools. Forsythe nods and manages to sit up with St. Luc's help. Once she seems able to stay propped up without St. Luc's help, he gets up and begins to move the barricade away from the door. St. Luc comes back to Forsythe and kneels beside her. Forsythe puts her arm around St. Luc's neck as though wanting support. Instead, she draws him down toward her and begins to babble in a strange, casual, dreamy way. While she talks, Forsythe gradually slips her arms around St. Luc's neck and brings her lips closer and closer to his. St. Luc, mesmerized by the hypnotic drone of her words, is about to kiss her. Suddenly her mouth snaps open wide with mechanical precision, her head tilts back, her eyes flick closed. St. Luc stares at her in horror as her throat begins to swell. In the depths of Forsythe's mouth two parasite tentacles probe about, seeking a firm hold for their suckers so that they can pull the parasite's body out of her narrow esophagus. St. Luc hesitates only for an instant, then rips a strip from her blouse, balls it up, and shoves it into her mouth. Holding her while she struggles to remove it, he rips off a second strip and ties it around her head to keep the gag in. St. Luc rises, throws Forsythe over his shoulder and begins to step toward the door trying to figure out what to do next. Suddenly the driver's door of her car is yanked open and the doorman, slavering and drooling, throws himself at her. The doorman forces her down across the front seats of the car and begins to kiss her on the neck and rip her clothes to shreds. He gradually forces himself between her legs. He opens the garage door. Forsythe's screams come echoing through the garage. The doorman is still on top of Forsythe in the front seat of the car. St. Luc pulls the doorman's gun out of its holster and begins smashing away at the doorman with it. The doorman pounds St. Luc in the temple with his fist and lifts himself partially off Forsythe, half turning toward St. Luc, who is staggered by the blow. The doorman's face is covered with blood and drool. Repulsed and terrified, St. Luc fires the gun into the doorman's upper body three times, heedless of the possibility that he might hit Forsythe. The doorman slumps over Forsythe. St. Luc grips the gun and staggers over to the car. He pulls the doorman off Forsythe, who is completely soaked with blood. She has obviously had an externally rough time, but there is nothing to suggest that she has been infected by the doorman. St. Luc shoves her over into the passenger's seat, where she slumps, dazed. He doesn't have to start the car -- it's never been turned off. He slams the shift lever into reverse and backs up, peeling rubber, to the base of the ramp. He puts it into first and begins to accelerate, foot to the floor, toward the garage door. Another car full of residents suddenly careens in front of the door and screeches to a halt, blocking St. Luc, who | Who is Roger St Luke's girlfriend? | Nurse Forsythe |
panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. is smiling ecstatically. He puts an arm around Janine, who reacts stiffly. Tudor begins to unbutton his shirt with one hand, his other still gripping Janine tightly. Janine hesitantly helps Tudor remove his shirt and begins to caress him in a perfunctory way, tears in her eyes. Her caresses make Tudor moan with pleasure. Janine's hand sweeps across Tudor's abdomen. She pulls her hand away, startled, obviously having just felt a few of Tudor's lumps. She looks up at Tudor's face with a mixture of horror and wonder in her eyes. Tudor is confused; he doesn't want the caresses to stop. Mrs. Spergazzi lies on an overstuffed couch with her wrist held up for Forsythe to bandage after she coats it with a healing gel. Mrs. Spergazzi wears a suffering-martyr expression. Mr. Spergazzi leans over the back of the couch patting his wife's other hand solicitously. Once inside, St. Luc grabs the poker hanging from an iron hook sunk into the wall of the incinerator, slides open the bolt on the door and opens it. He begins to probe around inside the incinerator oven but can't really see very much. He looks around and notices the superintendent's flashlight stuck up on top of a heating pipe. St. Luc takes down the flashlight, switches it on, and continues his search for the dead parasite. Tudor pulls her back to him, and finally she is forced to batter him away with her fists and slip off the edge of the bed. Tudor glares after her. Tudor's eyes are staring right out of his head and his mouth is wide open. He gasps for breath. He stares at Janine for a second, then buries his face in the blankets, twisting them in his hands and moaning. Janine bursts into tears and turns away | How does St. Luke kill the caretaker? | By bashing them over the skull. |
of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth | Where is St. Luke trapped before he is infected? | Swimming pool. |
to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. | Who does Hobbes first infest with the parasite? | His mistress. |
panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too St. Luc keeps staring at Tudor's file, shifts something from one side of the folder to the other. Something bothers him. The door to one of the examination rooms opens and Forsythe pops her head around the corner. Forsythe disappears. St. Luc studies Tudor's file. After only a short moment of relative calm, Tudor suddenly contracts into the fetal position, spilling his drink on to the floor. He rolls on to the floor, eyes staring out of his head, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water, tendons in his neck bulging with tension. He soon manages to struggle to his feet, the primary spasm of pain apparently over. He keeps both hands clamped over his mouth as though in a vain attempt to forestall a bout of vomiting and stumbles into the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, Tudor throws himself over the side of the bathtub, knees on the bath mat, head well down into the tub itself. He gags and vomits into the tub and collapses, exhausted, on the floor, mouth bloody. In the tub, a trail of blood-streaked slime leads into the drain. Parkins gets up and follows Forsythe into one of the examination rooms. Forsythe leaves. Parkins chuckles to himself -- 'still life in the old boy yet' kind of feeling -- and begins to undress. He breathes heavily, gasping for air. His expression is a dazed one and he mumbles incoherently. After a moment's rest he rises, opens the glass door, and steps out on to the balcony. Suddenly the muscles of his neck go tense again, his mouth seems to gape open at the extreme limits imposed by muscle and jawbone, his hands fly up to his mouth in an attempt to keep down whatever is about to come up. | What is St. Luke's profession? | He is the community resident physician. |
young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too St. Luc keeps staring at Tudor's file, shifts something from one side of the folder to the other. Something bothers him. The door to one of the examination rooms opens and Forsythe pops her head around the corner. Forsythe disappears. St. Luc studies Tudor's file. After only a short moment of relative calm, Tudor suddenly contracts into the fetal position, spilling his drink on to the floor. He rolls on to the floor, eyes staring out of his head, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water, tendons in his neck bulging with tension. He soon manages to struggle to his feet, the primary spasm of pain apparently over. He keeps both hands clamped over his mouth as though in a vain attempt to forestall a bout of vomiting and stumbles into the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, Tudor throws himself over the side of the bathtub, knees on the bath mat, head well down into the tub itself. He gags and vomits into the tub and collapses, exhausted, on the floor, mouth bloody. In the tub, a trail of blood-streaked slime leads into the drain. Parkins gets up and follows Forsythe into one of the examination rooms. Forsythe leaves. Parkins chuckles to himself -- 'still life in the old boy yet' kind of feeling -- and begins to undress. He breathes heavily, gasping for air. His expression is a dazed one and he mumbles incoherently. After a moment's rest he rises, opens the glass door, and steps out on to the balcony. Suddenly the muscles of his neck go tense again, his mouth seems to gape open at the extreme limits imposed by muscle and jawbone, his hands fly up to his mouth in an attempt to keep down whatever is about to come up. | What happens to the security guard? | He gets infected |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, trying to figure out what to do next. Suddenly the driver's door of her car is yanked open and the doorman, slavering and drooling, throws himself at her. The doorman forces her down across the front seats of the car and begins to kiss her on the neck and rip her clothes to shreds. He gradually forces himself between her legs. He opens the garage door. Forsythe's screams come echoing through the garage. The doorman is still on top of Forsythe in the front seat of the car. St. Luc pulls the doorman's gun out of its holster and begins smashing away at the doorman with it. The doorman pounds St. Luc in the temple with his fist and lifts himself partially off Forsythe, half turning toward St. Luc, who is staggered by the blow. The doorman's face is covered with blood and drool. Repulsed and terrified, St. Luc fires the gun into the doorman's upper body three times, heedless of the possibility that he might hit Forsythe. The doorman slumps over Forsythe. St. Luc grips the gun and staggers over to the car. He pulls the doorman off Forsythe, who is completely soaked with blood. She has obviously had an externally rough time, but there is nothing to suggest that she has been infected by the doorman. St. Luc shoves her over into the passenger's seat, where she slumps, dazed. He doesn't have to start the car -- it's never been turned off. He slams the shift lever into reverse and backs up, peeling rubber, to the base of the ramp. He puts it into first and begins to accelerate, foot to the floor, toward the garage door. Another car full of residents suddenly careens in front of the door and screeches to a halt, blocking St. Luc, who silent scream in the tub, her mouth wide open, her head rolling from side to side. The only sounds are the thrashing of her legs in the water and the gurgle of the drain. With a spasm that shakes her whole body, Betts throws her arms wide and knocks her glass off the edge of the tub and on to the tiles of the bathroom floor. The glass shatters. After a moment or two of further silent struggle, Betts arches her back, then falls into a semi-conscious stupor, slumping motionless in the tub. Tudor's hands rest on his abdomen in a posture often associated with pregnant women. Between his hands, in the area around the navel, three lumps shift beneath the skin, changing positions and pulsing rhythmically. As they move, Tudor makes little delirious crooning sounds, a parody of a lullaby. In the living room, Janine sits on the couch agitatedly flipping through her Vogue, now wearing large, fashionable glasses with thick, tinted prescription lenses. She can't seem to get into doing anything until St. Luc comes. She gets up and turns the TV on again, deliberately turning up the volume to an uncomfortable level. Their arms are linked and they both walk with the aid of canes, the ultra-modern aluminum kind with four rubber-tipped prongs at the end. Mrs. Spergazzi nods and smiles, patting Mr. Spergazzi's hand. They round a corner which leads them down the stretch of hall which passes by Tudor's door. As they approach Tudor's door they notice a plastic milk jug lying in the hall just below the open milk-chute door. Mrs. Spergazzi detaches herself from her husband and bends down with difficulty to pick up the jug. She puts the jug back in the milk chute. She notices the blood smeared on it just | How does Hobbes die? | He commits suicide. |
swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too | Who is the first person Hobbes implants the parasites in? | His teenage mistress |
swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, style, even when discussing medical matters in medical jargon, is broad North-American Jewish. In his depressive phase, he becomes a sullen kid who has an oddly sinister aspect to his character. Rollo detaches himself from his baby beef in order to comment on the food that, not so secretly, he loves best of all. He jams a final piece of sandwich into his mouth and jumps to his feet, smiling broadly. He pulls a book off a shelf with a bookmark in it. He opens the book at the marked page and hands it to St. Luc. As St. Luc looks at the picture of a satyr with his tongue hanging out and reads the brief note on how medieval alchemists thought the ground-up tongue of the satyr could cure any disease, Rollo continues to talk. As Rollo speaks, he walks all over the place, picking up and discarding various charts, specimens, bottled and diseased human organs, etc. As he moves around, we catch glimpses of Letrasetted signs that Rollo has tacked up: 'Sex is the invention of a clever venereal disease -- Hobbes'; 'Dr. Hobbes's prescription: starve a fever, feed an obsession'; 'The road of excess leads to knowledge'; plus several pictures of satyrs with their tongues sticking out, being cut off by alchemists, etc. He is now in full flight. He leans over St. Luc and begins to demonstrate what he says by drawing things on St. Luc's stomach with his fingers. St. Luc can't hide his amusement. Rollo throws himself back into his chair and grabs a pickle. St. Luc is about to say something, but Rollo answers his own rhetorical question with a flip of the hand, effectively silencing St. Luc. He leaps up again and pulls a sheaf of reprints from medical journals like the that? The boy takes a look. Inside the box a third parasite can just be seen clinging to a three-quart white plastic milk jug. The jug is smeared with blood. The box's inside door is ajar. The TV set can be heard from inside the apartment. The girl hesitates for a second. Suddenly the parasite twitches around to the front of the jug. The girl, startled, slams the box door shut. The children run off down the hallway together. After a few seconds, the box door is nudged open again from the inside. She doesn't notice a trail of bloody slime leading from the bedroom to the inside door of the milk box. In the bedroom, a hand reaches down and pulls back a bedsheet to reveal a naked abdomen. It is Tudor's abdomen, and he reaches out with trembling fingers to touch a lump the size of a chicken egg stretching the skin to one side of his navel. Tudor watches the lump in the muted light of his bedroom. He gradually extends his hand toward the lump, which disappears the instant it's touched. He taps and scratches the skin near his navel, as though trying to lure a cat into attacking his fingers. He is propped up in bed, sweating profusely, half-dressed. He looks weak and drained, but still manages to smile with maniacal intensity, his eyes wide and bright. We can now see that the sheets are twisted, the pillows half off the bed. Tudor begins drumming on his abdomen. Gradually, cautiously, the lump under Tudor's skin returns. He tries to seize the lump with his fingers and it shrinks back, almost disappearing into his abdominal cavity again. Tudor seems disappointed. The lump returns again. Gently, Tudor begins stroking it. The lump seems to respond by pulsing | Who uncovers the work that Hobbes was working on? | Roger St. Luc uncovers the work Hobbes was working on. |
panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth He gingerly touches his face, inspecting the damage, shivering and moaning. Still shaking, he turns to leave. Without warning, Tudor leaps up at Rollo with insane energy and bowls him over, pliers in hand. Sitting on Rollo's chest, Tudor smashes away at Rollo's face and head with the pliers, the piece of dead parasite in his mouth dropping on to Rollo's face as he drools. Forsythe nods and manages to sit up with St. Luc's help. Once she seems able to stay propped up without St. Luc's help, he gets up and begins to move the barricade away from the door. St. Luc comes back to Forsythe and kneels beside her. Forsythe puts her arm around St. Luc's neck as though wanting support. Instead, she draws him down toward her and begins to babble in a strange, casual, dreamy way. While she talks, Forsythe gradually slips her arms around St. Luc's neck and brings her lips closer and closer to his. St. Luc, mesmerized by the hypnotic drone of her words, is about to kiss her. Suddenly her mouth snaps open wide with mechanical precision, her head tilts back, her eyes flick closed. St. Luc stares at her in horror as her throat begins to swell. In the depths of Forsythe's mouth two parasite tentacles probe about, seeking a firm hold for their suckers so that they can pull the parasite's body out of her narrow esophagus. St. Luc hesitates only for an instant, then rips a strip from her blouse, balls it up, and shoves it into her mouth. Holding her while she struggles to remove it, he rips off a second strip and ties it around her head to keep the gag in. St. Luc rises, throws Forsythe over his shoulder and begins to step toward the door trying to figure out what to do next. Suddenly the driver's door of her car is yanked open and the doorman, slavering and drooling, throws himself at her. The doorman forces her down across the front seats of the car and begins to kiss her on the neck and rip her clothes to shreds. He gradually forces himself between her legs. He opens the garage door. Forsythe's screams come echoing through the garage. The doorman is still on top of Forsythe in the front seat of the car. St. Luc pulls the doorman's gun out of its holster and begins smashing away at the doorman with it. The doorman pounds St. Luc in the temple with his fist and lifts himself partially off Forsythe, half turning toward St. Luc, who is staggered by the blow. The doorman's face is covered with blood and drool. Repulsed and terrified, St. Luc fires the gun into the doorman's upper body three times, heedless of the possibility that he might hit Forsythe. The doorman slumps over Forsythe. St. Luc grips the gun and staggers over to the car. He pulls the doorman off Forsythe, who is completely soaked with blood. She has obviously had an externally rough time, but there is nothing to suggest that she has been infected by the doorman. St. Luc shoves her over into the passenger's seat, where she slumps, dazed. He doesn't have to start the car -- it's never been turned off. He slams the shift lever into reverse and backs up, peeling rubber, to the base of the ramp. He puts it into first and begins to accelerate, foot to the floor, toward the garage door. Another car full of residents suddenly careens in front of the door and screeches to a halt, blocking St. Luc, who is smiling ecstatically. He puts an arm around Janine, who reacts stiffly. Tudor begins to unbutton his shirt with one hand, his other still gripping Janine tightly. Janine hesitantly helps Tudor remove his shirt and begins to caress him in a perfunctory way, tears in her eyes. Her caresses make Tudor moan with pleasure. Janine's hand sweeps across Tudor's abdomen. She pulls her hand away, startled, obviously having just felt a few of Tudor's lumps. She looks up at Tudor's face with a mixture of horror and wonder in her eyes. Tudor is confused; he doesn't want the caresses to stop. Mrs. Spergazzi lies on an overstuffed couch with her wrist held up for Forsythe to bandage after she coats it with a healing gel. Mrs. Spergazzi wears a suffering-martyr expression. Mr. Spergazzi leans over the back of the couch patting his wife's other hand solicitously. Once inside, St. Luc grabs the poker hanging from an iron hook sunk into the wall of the incinerator, slides open the bolt on the door and opens it. He begins to probe around inside the incinerator oven but can't really see very much. He looks around and notices the superintendent's flashlight stuck up on top of a heating pipe. St. Luc takes down the flashlight, switches it on, and continues his search for the dead parasite. Tudor pulls her back to him, and finally she is forced to batter him away with her fists and slip off the edge of the bed. Tudor glares after her. Tudor's eyes are staring right out of his head and his mouth is wide open. He gasps for breath. He stares at Janine for a second, then buries his face in the blankets, twisting them in his hands and moaning. Janine bursts into tears and turns away unsteadily. St. Luc cracks him on the ankle with the poker and he comes crashing down. The parasite corpse is flung across the room, where it smacks wetly into the wall and slides to the floor. St. Luc leaps to his feet and begins kicking the man in the head. After a furious moment or two, he suddenly stops, drops the poker, and stares at the body in horrified disbelief. St. Luc slowly backs away from the man's body, which is very still and quietly oozes blood on to the damp concrete floor. He bumps into the edge of the door left open by the man. The collision seems to startle him out of his daze somewhat, and he turns, himself scratched and bleeding, and staggers up the basement steps. Suddenly a piercing scream is heard from down the hall. Mr. Spergazzi, hard of hearing, doesn't notice. The scream is followed by bangs, crashes, and insane laughter and giggling. Mrs. Spergazzi comes out of the kitchen. She has heard the noises. She and Forsythe look at each other for a moment, then Forsythe goes to the door and slides the chain lock into place. She then goes to the telephone to call the police. She dials a few times, and clicks the receiver button. Nothing. The phone is dead. She puts the receiver back on the hook. Mrs. Spergazzi knows that something is very wrong. She wrings her hands and begins to wail in Italian. One of these residents is the superintendent, who is opening the door with one of his set of master keys. The residents, some of them women, giggle in anticipation. Once the door has been opened, they all rush in, drooling and moaning. From inside the apartment we hear several muffled voices, at first angry and | Who is Nurse Forsythe? | She is St. Luc assistant and girlfriend. |
young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth is smiling ecstatically. He puts an arm around Janine, who reacts stiffly. Tudor begins to unbutton his shirt with one hand, his other still gripping Janine tightly. Janine hesitantly helps Tudor remove his shirt and begins to caress him in a perfunctory way, tears in her eyes. Her caresses make Tudor moan with pleasure. Janine's hand sweeps across Tudor's abdomen. She pulls her hand away, startled, obviously having just felt a few of Tudor's lumps. She looks up at Tudor's face with a mixture of horror and wonder in her eyes. Tudor is confused; he doesn't want the caresses to stop. Mrs. Spergazzi lies on an overstuffed couch with her wrist held up for Forsythe to bandage after she coats it with a healing gel. Mrs. Spergazzi wears a suffering-martyr expression. Mr. Spergazzi leans over the back of the couch patting his wife's other hand solicitously. Once inside, St. Luc grabs the poker hanging from an iron hook sunk into the wall of the incinerator, slides open the bolt on the door and opens it. He begins to probe around inside the incinerator oven but can't really see very much. He looks around and notices the superintendent's flashlight stuck up on top of a heating pipe. St. Luc takes down the flashlight, switches it on, and continues his search for the dead parasite. Tudor pulls her back to him, and finally she is forced to batter him away with her fists and slip off the edge of the bed. Tudor glares after her. Tudor's eyes are staring right out of his head and his mouth is wide open. He gasps for breath. He stares at Janine for a second, then buries his face in the blankets, twisting them in his hands and moaning. Janine bursts into tears and turns away St. Luc keeps staring at Tudor's file, shifts something from one side of the folder to the other. Something bothers him. The door to one of the examination rooms opens and Forsythe pops her head around the corner. Forsythe disappears. St. Luc studies Tudor's file. After only a short moment of relative calm, Tudor suddenly contracts into the fetal position, spilling his drink on to the floor. He rolls on to the floor, eyes staring out of his head, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water, tendons in his neck bulging with tension. He soon manages to struggle to his feet, the primary spasm of pain apparently over. He keeps both hands clamped over his mouth as though in a vain attempt to forestall a bout of vomiting and stumbles into the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, Tudor throws himself over the side of the bathtub, knees on the bath mat, head well down into the tub itself. He gags and vomits into the tub and collapses, exhausted, on the floor, mouth bloody. In the tub, a trail of blood-streaked slime leads into the drain. Parkins gets up and follows Forsythe into one of the examination rooms. Forsythe leaves. Parkins chuckles to himself -- 'still life in the old boy yet' kind of feeling -- and begins to undress. He breathes heavily, gasping for air. His expression is a dazed one and he mumbles incoherently. After a moment's rest he rises, opens the glass door, and steps out on to the balcony. Suddenly the muscles of his neck go tense again, his mouth seems to gape open at the extreme limits imposed by muscle and jawbone, his hands fly up to his mouth in an attempt to keep down whatever is about to come up. | Where are the elderly people moved to? | They were moved to St. Luc and Nurse Forsythe room. |
swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. style, even when discussing medical matters in medical jargon, is broad North-American Jewish. In his depressive phase, he becomes a sullen kid who has an oddly sinister aspect to his character. Rollo detaches himself from his baby beef in order to comment on the food that, not so secretly, he loves best of all. He jams a final piece of sandwich into his mouth and jumps to his feet, smiling broadly. He pulls a book off a shelf with a bookmark in it. He opens the book at the marked page and hands it to St. Luc. As St. Luc looks at the picture of a satyr with his tongue hanging out and reads the brief note on how medieval alchemists thought the ground-up tongue of the satyr could cure any disease, Rollo continues to talk. As Rollo speaks, he walks all over the place, picking up and discarding various charts, specimens, bottled and diseased human organs, etc. As he moves around, we catch glimpses of Letrasetted signs that Rollo has tacked up: 'Sex is the invention of a clever venereal disease -- Hobbes'; 'Dr. Hobbes's prescription: starve a fever, feed an obsession'; 'The road of excess leads to knowledge'; plus several pictures of satyrs with their tongues sticking out, being cut off by alchemists, etc. He is now in full flight. He leans over St. Luc and begins to demonstrate what he says by drawing things on St. Luc's stomach with his fingers. St. Luc can't hide his amusement. Rollo throws himself back into his chair and grabs a pickle. St. Luc is about to say something, but Rollo answers his own rhetorical question with a flip of the hand, effectively silencing St. Luc. He leaps up again and pulls a sheaf of reprints from medical journals like the St. Luc keeps staring at Tudor's file, shifts something from one side of the folder to the other. Something bothers him. The door to one of the examination rooms opens and Forsythe pops her head around the corner. Forsythe disappears. St. Luc studies Tudor's file. After only a short moment of relative calm, Tudor suddenly contracts into the fetal position, spilling his drink on to the floor. He rolls on to the floor, eyes staring out of his head, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water, tendons in his neck bulging with tension. He soon manages to struggle to his feet, the primary spasm of pain apparently over. He keeps both hands clamped over his mouth as though in a vain attempt to forestall a bout of vomiting and stumbles into the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, Tudor throws himself over the side of the bathtub, knees on the bath mat, head well down into the tub itself. He gags and vomits into the tub and collapses, exhausted, on the floor, mouth bloody. In the tub, a trail of blood-streaked slime leads into the drain. Parkins gets up and follows Forsythe into one of the examination rooms. Forsythe leaves. Parkins chuckles to himself -- 'still life in the old boy yet' kind of feeling -- and begins to undress. He breathes heavily, gasping for air. His expression is a dazed one and he mumbles incoherently. After a moment's rest he rises, opens the glass door, and steps out on to the balcony. Suddenly the muscles of his neck go tense again, his mouth seems to gape open at the extreme limits imposed by muscle and jawbone, his hands fly up to his mouth in an attempt to keep down whatever is about to come up. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too glimpse of Tudor rolling around on the floor behind his desk, his swivel chair tipped over on to its side. She rushes over to Tudor and helps him to his feet. Tudor is breathing heavily and has to support himself by leaning on the desk while Mrs. Wheatley straightens up the chair for him. Tudor collapses into the chair, mumbling and rolling his head from side to side. Mrs. Wheatley pulls a Kleenex from her sleeve and dabs away a small trickle of blood coming from one corner of Tudor's mouth. Mrs. Wheatley shows Tudor the spot of blood on her Kleenex. Tudor shoves her hand away and sits straight at his desk, still pretty wobbly. Mrs. Wheatley steps away from the desk, obviously hurt by Tudor's brusqueness. She leaves, closing the door behind her. Tudor sighs, taking a deep breath. He is suddenly hit by another twinge of pain. He clutches his stomach. Blood trickles out of the corner of his mouth. After a pause, he licks the blood off his lips with the tip of his tongue. Three or four people sit waiting to see St. Luc, among them the aging but sprightly Mr. Parkins and Janine Tudor. Parkins, who considers himself something of a ladies' man, is talking to Janine when St. Luc appears and looks at the list of patients who have signed in. St. Luc gestures to Janine to follow him into his office. Janine gets up, excusing herself to Mr. Parkins. She follows St. Luc into his office. He closes the door behind her. Janine smiles and shakes her head. Just gotta have time to put the clinic to bed for the night and grab some supper. Janine gets up, opens the door to the reception area, and leaves, closing the door behind her. | Why are the residents acting ou? | They have been infected by the parasite. |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too St. Luc keeps staring at Tudor's file, shifts something from one side of the folder to the other. Something bothers him. The door to one of the examination rooms opens and Forsythe pops her head around the corner. Forsythe disappears. St. Luc studies Tudor's file. After only a short moment of relative calm, Tudor suddenly contracts into the fetal position, spilling his drink on to the floor. He rolls on to the floor, eyes staring out of his head, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water, tendons in his neck bulging with tension. He soon manages to struggle to his feet, the primary spasm of pain apparently over. He keeps both hands clamped over his mouth as though in a vain attempt to forestall a bout of vomiting and stumbles into the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, Tudor throws himself over the side of the bathtub, knees on the bath mat, head well down into the tub itself. He gags and vomits into the tub and collapses, exhausted, on the floor, mouth bloody. In the tub, a trail of blood-streaked slime leads into the drain. Parkins gets up and follows Forsythe into one of the examination rooms. Forsythe leaves. Parkins chuckles to himself -- 'still life in the old boy yet' kind of feeling -- and begins to undress. He breathes heavily, gasping for air. His expression is a dazed one and he mumbles incoherently. After a moment's rest he rises, opens the glass door, and steps out on to the balcony. Suddenly the muscles of his neck go tense again, his mouth seems to gape open at the extreme limits imposed by muscle and jawbone, his hands fly up to his mouth in an attempt to keep down whatever is about to come up. style, even when discussing medical matters in medical jargon, is broad North-American Jewish. In his depressive phase, he becomes a sullen kid who has an oddly sinister aspect to his character. Rollo detaches himself from his baby beef in order to comment on the food that, not so secretly, he loves best of all. He jams a final piece of sandwich into his mouth and jumps to his feet, smiling broadly. He pulls a book off a shelf with a bookmark in it. He opens the book at the marked page and hands it to St. Luc. As St. Luc looks at the picture of a satyr with his tongue hanging out and reads the brief note on how medieval alchemists thought the ground-up tongue of the satyr could cure any disease, Rollo continues to talk. As Rollo speaks, he walks all over the place, picking up and discarding various charts, specimens, bottled and diseased human organs, etc. As he moves around, we catch glimpses of Letrasetted signs that Rollo has tacked up: 'Sex is the invention of a clever venereal disease -- Hobbes'; 'Dr. Hobbes's prescription: starve a fever, feed an obsession'; 'The road of excess leads to knowledge'; plus several pictures of satyrs with their tongues sticking out, being cut off by alchemists, etc. He is now in full flight. He leans over St. Luc and begins to demonstrate what he says by drawing things on St. Luc's stomach with his fingers. St. Luc can't hide his amusement. Rollo throws himself back into his chair and grabs a pickle. St. Luc is about to say something, but Rollo answers his own rhetorical question with a flip of the hand, effectively silencing St. Luc. He leaps up again and pulls a sheaf of reprints from medical journals like the | Why would the story suggest that Hobbes plan to infect the world is underway? | Residents are happily exiting the residential block in their cars. |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too | What is the alien organism made of that Hobbes develops? | It is a combination of aphrodisiac and venereal disease. |
young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. once, as if to say, 'Big deal, so what?' Tudor ignores her and finishes breakfast. He walks down the hallway on automatic pilot, obviously preoccupied, turning the corner leading to the elevators without perceiving what he is seeing. At the elevators he hesitates for a moment, then presses the UP button. When the door opens, he steps in. Nobody says another word until the doors spring open and Merrick, after a wink at Tudor, hustles the Svibens out of the elevator. As the doors close, Merrick's voice floats back to Tudor. Once the door has closed, Tudor presses the button for the top floor. As the elevator ascends, he takes out his wallet and removes a key from a zippered compartment. Tudor approaches the dining room with his hand over his nose and mouth. Annabelle's corpse is still smoking where it lies on the dining-room table. Hobbes's body is twisted into the fetal position at the foot of the table, one hand still clutching the scalpel stuck in its neck, the floor beneath it bright with blood. Tudor winces as though stuck with a pin. Blinking rapidly, he edges around the room until his angle of vision is such that he can see the head of the corpse on the table. It is definitely Annabelle, eyes still staring, surgical clip still attached to her lips, purple bruises on her neck. Tudor turns, his body contracting around the pit of his stomach. After a moment he manages to straighten up and stagger from the apartment, having at least enough presence of mind to take his attaché case, which he left by the door, and to close the door behind him. The super, a small, unshaven, harassed little man with a lot of energy, is talking to a large beefy detective who Luc rises from his chair and Forsythe throws herself on him, sobbing. St. Luc hugs Forsythe for a moment, then holds her away from him so that he can get some information out of her. St. Luc hesitates for a second, then grabs his black leather doctor's bag. The doors slide open. Nobody seems to be waiting. The mother pushes the CLOSE DOOR button, a bit impatiently. A hand holding a crêpe oozing red jam and sugar reaches around into the elevator. The two women cringe, suddenly afraid. Kurt, the delivery boy, steps around and into the elevator, smiling broadly, eyes wide and glistening. He drools slightly. The doors slide closed. Kurt offers one crêpe to each woman. He sighs, shakes his head -- always something going wrong -- stuffs the pocketbook into his jacket, and gets up, taking out a huge ring of keys from his pocket as he does so. He walks over to the metal control panel sunk into the wall between the elevators and opens it with one of the keys on the ring. Then, checking to make sure which elevator is the stuck one, he plays with a switch which manually overrides the floor selector and brings the elevator down. The doorman watches as the numbers show that the elevator is finally coming down. He stands by, waiting to see who or what has caused the elevator to stay at one floor for so long, jingling his keys, trying to look stern and authoritarian. The doors spring open. Kurt stands at the back of the elevator, one arm around the young girl, who hugs him tightly. The girl is finishing the last bit of one of the crêpes, sucking her fingers deliciously. The mother sits slumped in the opposite corner, her coat open, her dress of the gym. Dangling over St. Luc's shoulder, Forsythe struggles, moans, and howls as best she can. St. Luc manages to pin her hands to her sides so that she can't pull the gag out. Before St. Luc reaches the door, a handsome middle-aged woman peeks in around the corner. St. Luc rushes at the woman, knocking her over. She rolls on the floor, hugging herself and crooning. Once out the door, St. Luc makes for the nearest exit. A group of residents suddenly appear at the next landing above St. Luc and, noticing them, begin to walk down the steps, moaning and crooning and making vaguely sexual gestures toward the pair. Blood is now pouring from Forsythe's mouth and tentacles are groping for leverage at her cheeks and chin. St. Luc decides to attempt to shoulder his way up the stairs, certain that Rollo and the police must be at the main doors. As he hits the residents on the stairs, they try to kiss him, caress him, pull his clothes off. They finally manage to drag Forsythe from his shoulders, almost unbalancing him as they do so. St. Luc tries to prop her up on her feet, but she's completely limp. St. Luc holds Forsythe against the stairway wall as residents mill all about them. He looks at her in sudden hopelessness. The parasite is now half out of her mouth, hanging through the slit it has torn in her gag. St. Luc lets go of Forsythe and she sinks to the floor. The residents are swarming all over them. St. Luc abandons Forsythe and begins to fight his way up the stairs. He runs higher and higher, up flight after flight of stairs, until he is free of the slow-moving residents. He leans back against a wall, it and puts down the bag. The old woman notices a slimy streak near the open hole of the washer. She grimaces, grabs a sock from the bag and cleans off the top of the washer with it. She tosses the sock into the washer and leans over the hole, trying to see inside. The parasite which has been lurking in the washer suddenly springs from the opening on to the old woman's face, suckering on to her flesh with its stubby tentacles. She shrieks and grabs at the creature with both hands, trying to pull it off. She stumbles back from the washer and begins to trip over various shopping bags. Finally she goes down amidst her laundry, thrashing and spilling clothes out everywhere. She stops to look at several shelves of various kinds of food, picking up this and that, but somehow the thought of cooking or even eating repulses her, and she leaves without buying anything but the magazine. Other equipment and graphics of various kinds stuck on walls, hidden in corners and lying on chairs and tables suggest that Betts is in advertising and commercial graphics. Janine stands halfway in the door. Janine wiggles her fingers goodbye and leaves. A moment after she's gone and closed the door, two children about ten years old appear around a corner, giggling and jostling each other. They approach Tudor's apartment. The first box she tries is empty. She advances to the next and the next, finally finding one that has a jug in it. She takes it and advances to Tudor's box, jug swinging, companion trailing after her in admiration. She stops at Tudor's milk box and flicks the door open. She looks inside, just about to reach for the jug that nestles back in the shadows. Ugh! What's | Why is the auctioneer showing the apartment? | It is vacant |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too St. Luc keeps staring at Tudor's file, shifts something from one side of the folder to the other. Something bothers him. The door to one of the examination rooms opens and Forsythe pops her head around the corner. Forsythe disappears. St. Luc studies Tudor's file. After only a short moment of relative calm, Tudor suddenly contracts into the fetal position, spilling his drink on to the floor. He rolls on to the floor, eyes staring out of his head, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water, tendons in his neck bulging with tension. He soon manages to struggle to his feet, the primary spasm of pain apparently over. He keeps both hands clamped over his mouth as though in a vain attempt to forestall a bout of vomiting and stumbles into the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, Tudor throws himself over the side of the bathtub, knees on the bath mat, head well down into the tub itself. He gags and vomits into the tub and collapses, exhausted, on the floor, mouth bloody. In the tub, a trail of blood-streaked slime leads into the drain. Parkins gets up and follows Forsythe into one of the examination rooms. Forsythe leaves. Parkins chuckles to himself -- 'still life in the old boy yet' kind of feeling -- and begins to undress. He breathes heavily, gasping for air. His expression is a dazed one and he mumbles incoherently. After a moment's rest he rises, opens the glass door, and steps out on to the balcony. Suddenly the muscles of his neck go tense again, his mouth seems to gape open at the extreme limits imposed by muscle and jawbone, his hands fly up to his mouth in an attempt to keep down whatever is about to come up. | What keeps St. Luc and Nurse Forsythe from crashing through the gate to the parking garage? | Another car rams them. |
of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth | Where was St. Luc when he was infected by the parasite? | in the swimming pool |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. He gingerly touches his face, inspecting the damage, shivering and moaning. Still shaking, he turns to leave. Without warning, Tudor leaps up at Rollo with insane energy and bowls him over, pliers in hand. Sitting on Rollo's chest, Tudor smashes away at Rollo's face and head with the pliers, the piece of dead parasite in his mouth dropping on to Rollo's face as he drools. Forsythe nods and manages to sit up with St. Luc's help. Once she seems able to stay propped up without St. Luc's help, he gets up and begins to move the barricade away from the door. St. Luc comes back to Forsythe and kneels beside her. Forsythe puts her arm around St. Luc's neck as though wanting support. Instead, she draws him down toward her and begins to babble in a strange, casual, dreamy way. While she talks, Forsythe gradually slips her arms around St. Luc's neck and brings her lips closer and closer to his. St. Luc, mesmerized by the hypnotic drone of her words, is about to kiss her. Suddenly her mouth snaps open wide with mechanical precision, her head tilts back, her eyes flick closed. St. Luc stares at her in horror as her throat begins to swell. In the depths of Forsythe's mouth two parasite tentacles probe about, seeking a firm hold for their suckers so that they can pull the parasite's body out of her narrow esophagus. St. Luc hesitates only for an instant, then rips a strip from her blouse, balls it up, and shoves it into her mouth. Holding her while she struggles to remove it, he rips off a second strip and ties it around her head to keep the gag in. St. Luc rises, throws Forsythe over his shoulder and begins to step toward the door | What effect does Dr. Hobbes' parasite have on a human host? | It causes uncontrollable sexual desire |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too style, even when discussing medical matters in medical jargon, is broad North-American Jewish. In his depressive phase, he becomes a sullen kid who has an oddly sinister aspect to his character. Rollo detaches himself from his baby beef in order to comment on the food that, not so secretly, he loves best of all. He jams a final piece of sandwich into his mouth and jumps to his feet, smiling broadly. He pulls a book off a shelf with a bookmark in it. He opens the book at the marked page and hands it to St. Luc. As St. Luc looks at the picture of a satyr with his tongue hanging out and reads the brief note on how medieval alchemists thought the ground-up tongue of the satyr could cure any disease, Rollo continues to talk. As Rollo speaks, he walks all over the place, picking up and discarding various charts, specimens, bottled and diseased human organs, etc. As he moves around, we catch glimpses of Letrasetted signs that Rollo has tacked up: 'Sex is the invention of a clever venereal disease -- Hobbes'; 'Dr. Hobbes's prescription: starve a fever, feed an obsession'; 'The road of excess leads to knowledge'; plus several pictures of satyrs with their tongues sticking out, being cut off by alchemists, etc. He is now in full flight. He leans over St. Luc and begins to demonstrate what he says by drawing things on St. Luc's stomach with his fingers. St. Luc can't hide his amusement. Rollo throws himself back into his chair and grabs a pickle. St. Luc is about to say something, but Rollo answers his own rhetorical question with a flip of the hand, effectively silencing St. Luc. He leaps up again and pulls a sheaf of reprints from medical journals like the panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth | In what city does the story take place? | Montreal, Canada |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth He gingerly touches his face, inspecting the damage, shivering and moaning. Still shaking, he turns to leave. Without warning, Tudor leaps up at Rollo with insane energy and bowls him over, pliers in hand. Sitting on Rollo's chest, Tudor smashes away at Rollo's face and head with the pliers, the piece of dead parasite in his mouth dropping on to Rollo's face as he drools. Forsythe nods and manages to sit up with St. Luc's help. Once she seems able to stay propped up without St. Luc's help, he gets up and begins to move the barricade away from the door. St. Luc comes back to Forsythe and kneels beside her. Forsythe puts her arm around St. Luc's neck as though wanting support. Instead, she draws him down toward her and begins to babble in a strange, casual, dreamy way. While she talks, Forsythe gradually slips her arms around St. Luc's neck and brings her lips closer and closer to his. St. Luc, mesmerized by the hypnotic drone of her words, is about to kiss her. Suddenly her mouth snaps open wide with mechanical precision, her head tilts back, her eyes flick closed. St. Luc stares at her in horror as her throat begins to swell. In the depths of Forsythe's mouth two parasite tentacles probe about, seeking a firm hold for their suckers so that they can pull the parasite's body out of her narrow esophagus. St. Luc hesitates only for an instant, then rips a strip from her blouse, balls it up, and shoves it into her mouth. Holding her while she struggles to remove it, he rips off a second strip and ties it around her head to keep the gag in. St. Luc rises, throws Forsythe over his shoulder and begins to step toward the door St. Luc keeps staring at Tudor's file, shifts something from one side of the folder to the other. Something bothers him. The door to one of the examination rooms opens and Forsythe pops her head around the corner. Forsythe disappears. St. Luc studies Tudor's file. After only a short moment of relative calm, Tudor suddenly contracts into the fetal position, spilling his drink on to the floor. He rolls on to the floor, eyes staring out of his head, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water, tendons in his neck bulging with tension. He soon manages to struggle to his feet, the primary spasm of pain apparently over. He keeps both hands clamped over his mouth as though in a vain attempt to forestall a bout of vomiting and stumbles into the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, Tudor throws himself over the side of the bathtub, knees on the bath mat, head well down into the tub itself. He gags and vomits into the tub and collapses, exhausted, on the floor, mouth bloody. In the tub, a trail of blood-streaked slime leads into the drain. Parkins gets up and follows Forsythe into one of the examination rooms. Forsythe leaves. Parkins chuckles to himself -- 'still life in the old boy yet' kind of feeling -- and begins to undress. He breathes heavily, gasping for air. His expression is a dazed one and he mumbles incoherently. After a moment's rest he rises, opens the glass door, and steps out on to the balcony. Suddenly the muscles of his neck go tense again, his mouth seems to gape open at the extreme limits imposed by muscle and jawbone, his hands fly up to his mouth in an attempt to keep down whatever is about to come up. | What does Hobbes do after he kills his mistress? | He commits suicide. |
panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. Luc rises from his chair and Forsythe throws herself on him, sobbing. St. Luc hugs Forsythe for a moment, then holds her away from him so that he can get some information out of her. St. Luc hesitates for a second, then grabs his black leather doctor's bag. The doors slide open. Nobody seems to be waiting. The mother pushes the CLOSE DOOR button, a bit impatiently. A hand holding a crêpe oozing red jam and sugar reaches around into the elevator. The two women cringe, suddenly afraid. Kurt, the delivery boy, steps around and into the elevator, smiling broadly, eyes wide and glistening. He drools slightly. The doors slide closed. Kurt offers one crêpe to each woman. He sighs, shakes his head -- always something going wrong -- stuffs the pocketbook into his jacket, and gets up, taking out a huge ring of keys from his pocket as he does so. He walks over to the metal control panel sunk into the wall between the elevators and opens it with one of the keys on the ring. Then, checking to make sure which elevator is the stuck one, he plays with a switch which manually overrides the floor selector and brings the elevator down. The doorman watches as the numbers show that the elevator is finally coming down. He stands by, waiting to see who or what has caused the elevator to stay at one floor for so long, jingling his keys, trying to look stern and authoritarian. The doors spring open. Kurt stands at the back of the elevator, one arm around the young girl, who hugs him tightly. The girl is finishing the last bit of one of the crêpes, sucking her fingers deliciously. The mother sits slumped in the opposite corner, her coat open, her dress | What is Roger St-Luc's job? | Resident Physician |
panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too Luc rises from his chair and Forsythe throws herself on him, sobbing. St. Luc hugs Forsythe for a moment, then holds her away from him so that he can get some information out of her. St. Luc hesitates for a second, then grabs his black leather doctor's bag. The doors slide open. Nobody seems to be waiting. The mother pushes the CLOSE DOOR button, a bit impatiently. A hand holding a crêpe oozing red jam and sugar reaches around into the elevator. The two women cringe, suddenly afraid. Kurt, the delivery boy, steps around and into the elevator, smiling broadly, eyes wide and glistening. He drools slightly. The doors slide closed. Kurt offers one crêpe to each woman. He sighs, shakes his head -- always something going wrong -- stuffs the pocketbook into his jacket, and gets up, taking out a huge ring of keys from his pocket as he does so. He walks over to the metal control panel sunk into the wall between the elevators and opens it with one of the keys on the ring. Then, checking to make sure which elevator is the stuck one, he plays with a switch which manually overrides the floor selector and brings the elevator down. The doorman watches as the numbers show that the elevator is finally coming down. He stands by, waiting to see who or what has caused the elevator to stay at one floor for so long, jingling his keys, trying to look stern and authoritarian. The doors spring open. Kurt stands at the back of the elevator, one arm around the young girl, who hugs him tightly. The girl is finishing the last bit of one of the crêpes, sucking her fingers deliciously. The mother sits slumped in the opposite corner, her coat open, her dress | How does St Luc defeat the caretaker who attacks him in the basement? | He breaks his skull |
young to go into the night looking for new hosts for their parasites, content to remain incubators for the time being. The residents are full of bubbly anticipation in their cars. Kresimir leans out of his car and shouts to no one in particular. The rest of the residents pick up the cry and chant together. The night watchman stands near the garage doors. Smiling broadly, he stamps on the cable which activates the sliding doors. The driver of this first car is St. Luc, sleek and exuberant, a raised collar and a scarf hiding most of his scars. He glances into his rear-view mirror. In the rear-view mirror, St. Luc sees all the other cars lining up behind him, lights blazing. St. Luc smiles, then steps on the accelerator. His car shoots out into the street. As St. Luc's car turns on to the street, car after car follows him. We rise higher and higher above the Starliner Towers apartment complex until the cars are a small stream of lights far below, bleeding into the main body of the neon-lit metropolis. to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth is smiling ecstatically. He puts an arm around Janine, who reacts stiffly. Tudor begins to unbutton his shirt with one hand, his other still gripping Janine tightly. Janine hesitantly helps Tudor remove his shirt and begins to caress him in a perfunctory way, tears in her eyes. Her caresses make Tudor moan with pleasure. Janine's hand sweeps across Tudor's abdomen. She pulls her hand away, startled, obviously having just felt a few of Tudor's lumps. She looks up at Tudor's face with a mixture of horror and wonder in her eyes. Tudor is confused; he doesn't want the caresses to stop. Mrs. Spergazzi lies on an overstuffed couch with her wrist held up for Forsythe to bandage after she coats it with a healing gel. Mrs. Spergazzi wears a suffering-martyr expression. Mr. Spergazzi leans over the back of the couch patting his wife's other hand solicitously. Once inside, St. Luc grabs the poker hanging from an iron hook sunk into the wall of the incinerator, slides open the bolt on the door and opens it. He begins to probe around inside the incinerator oven but can't really see very much. He looks around and notices the superintendent's flashlight stuck up on top of a heating pipe. St. Luc takes down the flashlight, switches it on, and continues his search for the dead parasite. Tudor pulls her back to him, and finally she is forced to batter him away with her fists and slip off the edge of the bed. Tudor glares after her. Tudor's eyes are staring right out of his head and his mouth is wide open. He gasps for breath. He stares at Janine for a second, then buries his face in the blankets, twisting them in his hands and moaning. Janine bursts into tears and turns away He gingerly touches his face, inspecting the damage, shivering and moaning. Still shaking, he turns to leave. Without warning, Tudor leaps up at Rollo with insane energy and bowls him over, pliers in hand. Sitting on Rollo's chest, Tudor smashes away at Rollo's face and head with the pliers, the piece of dead parasite in his mouth dropping on to Rollo's face as he drools. Forsythe nods and manages to sit up with St. Luc's help. Once she seems able to stay propped up without St. Luc's help, he gets up and begins to move the barricade away from the door. St. Luc comes back to Forsythe and kneels beside her. Forsythe puts her arm around St. Luc's neck as though wanting support. Instead, she draws him down toward her and begins to babble in a strange, casual, dreamy way. While she talks, Forsythe gradually slips her arms around St. Luc's neck and brings her lips closer and closer to his. St. Luc, mesmerized by the hypnotic drone of her words, is about to kiss her. Suddenly her mouth snaps open wide with mechanical precision, her head tilts back, her eyes flick closed. St. Luc stares at her in horror as her throat begins to swell. In the depths of Forsythe's mouth two parasite tentacles probe about, seeking a firm hold for their suckers so that they can pull the parasite's body out of her narrow esophagus. St. Luc hesitates only for an instant, then rips a strip from her blouse, balls it up, and shoves it into her mouth. Holding her while she struggles to remove it, he rips off a second strip and ties it around her head to keep the gag in. St. Luc rises, throws Forsythe over his shoulder and begins to step toward the door | What happens to St Luc in the swimming pool? | He is infected by the parasite. |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too style, even when discussing medical matters in medical jargon, is broad North-American Jewish. In his depressive phase, he becomes a sullen kid who has an oddly sinister aspect to his character. Rollo detaches himself from his baby beef in order to comment on the food that, not so secretly, he loves best of all. He jams a final piece of sandwich into his mouth and jumps to his feet, smiling broadly. He pulls a book off a shelf with a bookmark in it. He opens the book at the marked page and hands it to St. Luc. As St. Luc looks at the picture of a satyr with his tongue hanging out and reads the brief note on how medieval alchemists thought the ground-up tongue of the satyr could cure any disease, Rollo continues to talk. As Rollo speaks, he walks all over the place, picking up and discarding various charts, specimens, bottled and diseased human organs, etc. As he moves around, we catch glimpses of Letrasetted signs that Rollo has tacked up: 'Sex is the invention of a clever venereal disease -- Hobbes'; 'Dr. Hobbes's prescription: starve a fever, feed an obsession'; 'The road of excess leads to knowledge'; plus several pictures of satyrs with their tongues sticking out, being cut off by alchemists, etc. He is now in full flight. He leans over St. Luc and begins to demonstrate what he says by drawing things on St. Luc's stomach with his fingers. St. Luc can't hide his amusement. Rollo throws himself back into his chair and grabs a pickle. St. Luc is about to say something, but Rollo answers his own rhetorical question with a flip of the hand, effectively silencing St. Luc. He leaps up again and pulls a sheaf of reprints from medical journals like the | Why does Dr Hobbes develop the parasite in the first place? | Because he believes that mankind has become overly rational and alienated from their physical bodies |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too unsteadily. St. Luc cracks him on the ankle with the poker and he comes crashing down. The parasite corpse is flung across the room, where it smacks wetly into the wall and slides to the floor. St. Luc leaps to his feet and begins kicking the man in the head. After a furious moment or two, he suddenly stops, drops the poker, and stares at the body in horrified disbelief. St. Luc slowly backs away from the man's body, which is very still and quietly oozes blood on to the damp concrete floor. He bumps into the edge of the door left open by the man. The collision seems to startle him out of his daze somewhat, and he turns, himself scratched and bleeding, and staggers up the basement steps. Suddenly a piercing scream is heard from down the hall. Mr. Spergazzi, hard of hearing, doesn't notice. The scream is followed by bangs, crashes, and insane laughter and giggling. Mrs. Spergazzi comes out of the kitchen. She has heard the noises. She and Forsythe look at each other for a moment, then Forsythe goes to the door and slides the chain lock into place. She then goes to the telephone to call the police. She dials a few times, and clicks the receiver button. Nothing. The phone is dead. She puts the receiver back on the hook. Mrs. Spergazzi knows that something is very wrong. She wrings her hands and begins to wail in Italian. One of these residents is the superintendent, who is opening the door with one of his set of master keys. The residents, some of them women, giggle in anticipation. Once the door has been opened, they all rush in, drooling and moaning. From inside the apartment we hear several muffled voices, at first angry and once, as if to say, 'Big deal, so what?' Tudor ignores her and finishes breakfast. He walks down the hallway on automatic pilot, obviously preoccupied, turning the corner leading to the elevators without perceiving what he is seeing. At the elevators he hesitates for a moment, then presses the UP button. When the door opens, he steps in. Nobody says another word until the doors spring open and Merrick, after a wink at Tudor, hustles the Svibens out of the elevator. As the doors close, Merrick's voice floats back to Tudor. Once the door has closed, Tudor presses the button for the top floor. As the elevator ascends, he takes out his wallet and removes a key from a zippered compartment. Tudor approaches the dining room with his hand over his nose and mouth. Annabelle's corpse is still smoking where it lies on the dining-room table. Hobbes's body is twisted into the fetal position at the foot of the table, one hand still clutching the scalpel stuck in its neck, the floor beneath it bright with blood. Tudor winces as though stuck with a pin. Blinking rapidly, he edges around the room until his angle of vision is such that he can see the head of the corpse on the table. It is definitely Annabelle, eyes still staring, surgical clip still attached to her lips, purple bruises on her neck. Tudor turns, his body contracting around the pit of his stomach. After a moment he manages to straighten up and stagger from the apartment, having at least enough presence of mind to take his attaché case, which he left by the door, and to close the door behind him. The super, a small, unshaven, harassed little man with a lot of energy, is talking to a large beefy detective who at the counter beneath the medicine cabinet and begins to write in Parkins' file. The old man begins to put his shirt and tie back on. St. Luc smiles politely, his mind obviously elsewhere. The hand of an old woman, puckered and wrinkled from many hours submerged in hot soapy water, reaches up, and yanks the bar of soap out of the jaws of the window. The window swing shut. The woman's hand slides the bolt home, locking the window from the inside. The old woman is short, dumpy, puffy-faced, in her late sixties. Her hair is carelessly tied in a bun on top of her head. She sniffles, shakes her head, turns away from the window, and walks across the room to the long bank of washers and dryers. As she walks she has to thread her way among the dozen or so shopping bags full of dirty laundry -- against apartment regulations, she takes in outsiders' laundry -- which she has brought down the elevator with her. She flips open the top of the first washer and begins to dig clothes out of the nearest shopping bag. From above and behind the washer, we watch her fill the machine and reach into the front of her dress, which is black and frayed. After feeling around for a few seconds, she pulls out a plastic bag filled with white granulated detergent. She dumps some of this into the washer, finds the appropriate coins in the pocket of her dress, and starts the machine. She watches it for a second to make sure it's working properly, then puts the plastic bag back where she found it. She picks up the bag she has almost emptied and shuffles in her ragged slippers to the next washer. She stops in front of | What is the last thing the apartment residents do? | They get in their cars and drive away |
to swing the door open. She catches sight of Betts standing out on the balcony, looking across at the North Tower's lights. Betts turns slowly. She is wearing immaculate but very extreme make-up. Janine is slightly taken aback -- it's not Betts' style. Betts smiles and opens her arms to Janine. The car pulls out of the lot and on to the street. Deftly manipulating the hook on the poker's tip, St. Luc manages to pull the parasite out into the light. Garbage comes rattling down the chute. When St. Luc flashes his light into the oven, we see that the garbage consists of Betts' French food, half-eaten, silver servers and all, the snails being especially prominent. Insane giggles echo down the chute, followed by the slam of the chute door somewhere several floors above. St. Luc holds the thing up to the naked light bulb above the incinerator. The light seems to go right through the parasite, illuminating the twisted vascular system, reproductive organs, etc. As St. Luc examines the creature, which is still impaled on the hook of the poker, the door to the incinerator room opens behind him. A large, hairy, muscular man enters the room and approaches the oblivious St. Luc. The man slips his arms up under St. Luc's arms and kisses him passionately on the neck. As soon as St. Luc realizes what's happening, he smashes the man in the chest with his elbow and pulls free. The man grabs St. Luc again, trying to kiss him on the mouth. They struggle. St. Luc is thrown to the concrete floor. The man tries to pin him down. St. Luc, on the verge of being overpowered, smashes the man in the chest with the poker, parasite still hooked into its tip. The man stands up swollen with Tudor's blood, burst and spurt as the pliers tear them apart. In the bedroom, Tudor's eyes snap open. His head rises from the pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and, ashen and gaunt, shakes his head slowly as though waking from a dream. He begins to mumble. Then, as though listening to himself and suddenly understanding what he is saying, he rises to his feet shakily and walks to the kitchen. He stops at the kitchen door. Rollo has torn the parasites from his face and is pounding away at them in the kitchen sink. The parasites wriggle and curl in their own blood in the sink as he smashes away at them with the pliers. Tudor staggers toward Rollo. He starts to paw Rollo, feebly trying to prevent him from further mutilating the parasites. He reaches over St. Luc's shoulder and grabs a large chunk of one of the parasites. Rollo turns as Tudor begins to shove the piece of flesh back down his throat. As Rollo turns we see that bits of tentacles and suckers are still attached to his cheeks, throat, forehead. His face is melting and smoking in areas where it has been burned by the corrosive fluid on one side. He stares in rage at Tudor. With a scream, Rollo strikes Tudor with the pliers. Tudor falls, hitting his head on various chairs and protruding corners as he goes down, the chunk of parasite still in his mouth as he finally comes to rest, twitching, on the floor. Rollo drops the pliers on the floor. He stares at Tudor in shock. His face is reflected in a copper frying pan hanging over the stove. Noticing the reflection, Rollo leans over to get close to his own horrible image. to his. As they kiss, Janine's hands hold St. Luc's head fiercely. Betts assists her by pinning St. Luc's arms behind him. Janine's throat ripples and swells, her cheeks billow as a parasite swarms upwards from deep within her body. St. Luc's cheeks now swell as the parasite enters his mouth. His eyes jolt open in terror and he manages to pull away slightly, revealing the tentacles joining her mouth to his like grappling irons. St. Luc twists out of Betts' grasp. He and Janine, still locked together, sink beneath the surface. Dozens of residents pour into the pool room and join Spergazzi and the others at the poolside. Among these are faces already familiar to us: Kurt, Kresimir and Benda, the old laundry- room woman, etc. The new spectators clap, laugh, croon, and moan as though witnessing a wild group baptism. Some of them throw themselves into the water, pulling others in with them. Deep under the water's surface, St. Luc still struggles to free himself from Janine. Residents now splash into the depths all around them. St. Luc's cheeks bulge wide and blood dribbles from his nose and mouth. His throat swells monstrously. Janine releases him just in time for us to see the end of a tentacle slip back into his mouth. He exhales heavily as parasite enzymes pump furiously through his body. The water boils with his exhaled breath. Janine and St. Luc drift apart, now completely calm, as residents splash and swim, kick and embrace. As we prowl amongst the cars we find many of the residents we already know, now dressed to the teeth in their seductive best. Mr. Spergazzi and his wife stand and watch the spectacle, canes in hand, with great dignity. With them stand others who are too old or too of the freshly emerged blood parasites, which sits poised for only a fraction of a second before it springs at Rollo's face with great energy. As the thing hits Rollo's face it locks on to his head by entangling its stubby tentacles in his hair and attaching its suckers to his cheeks and chin. Rollo tries to stand, then staggers and falls. The thing tries to force its way into Rollo's mouth, cutting his lips in the process. They bleed furiously. When Rollo manages to pull a sucker away, a piece of his flesh comes with it. As he writhes on the carpeted floor, two more parasites appear crawling toward him from under the bed, covered with dust from the floor. They clamber on to him and fasten on to his face, suckering on to his ears, his throat, forehead, eyelids. One of them begins to ooze corrosive fluid on to his face. Rollo screams in pain. He manages to roll to his feet. He staggers out of the darkness of the bedroom into the living room, one arm extended, groping like a blind man, the three parasites still locked on to his face. They try to pull his lips apart, but he keeps his teeth firmly clenched to keep them from forcing their way into the depths of his body. He takes a few unbalanced steps toward the kitchen. With a sudden spasm of pain, he hurls himself sideways into the kitchen and almost falls again, grabbing at the last moment on to the sink. His hands touch a large pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a hammer on the counter by the sink, left there by Tudor weeks ago. Rollo seizes the pliers and begins to pull the parasites from his face with their steel jaws. The parasites, panting. Crooning and moaning echo up to him from below. He leans over the railing and looks down. In the stairwell several flights below, Forsythe lies surrounded by milling residents, legs spread as though about to give birth. A resident leans over and pulls the parasite from her mouth, then swallows it whole with gusto. Other residents touch her, stroke her, caress her, as though offering her a strange kind of comfort. St. Luc reels with disgust and disbelief. He turns and runs. The pool is dim and tranquil. Two women are swimming in the deep end as though nothing were at all abnormal. St. Luc watches them for a moment, enjoying the apparent normalcy of the scene. Then he staggers forward, calling out to the swimmers. The swimmers both flick playfully beneath the water's surface. St. Luc approaches the water's edge, waiting for them to surface. The water ripples and bubbles near his feet. A sinking feeling comes over him. He watches in horrible fascination. He begins to shiver. The ripples and bubbles spread and intensify. After a pause, Janine surfaces, smiling radiantly. A few seconds later, Betts surfaces near her, the very picture of benign, watery calm. Betts gestures to St. Luc to join them in the pool. St. Luc shakes his head slowly, backing away from the pool. He turns to leave the room. As he turns, Mr. Spergazzi appears out of the shadows behind him. Using his four-pronged aluminum cane, he pushes St. Luc backwards into the pool, chuckling playfully. Spergazzi looks around for approval as St. Luc begins to thrash about wildly. Betts swims up beside St. Luc, grabs him, and holds him under. Betts allows St. Luc to rise to the surface as a laughing Janine splashes over to him and fastens her mouth | Where is Forsythe when he is infected by the parasite? | In the parking garage |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought heading for the door. A final twist and the lock delivers. Several dozen manilla col- ored files from which to choose. A pair of folders titled Jenn- ifer travel to the desk. The first is full of press-cuttings & some gruesome looking snaps. Next file and this one looks more interesting? A notebook full of random questions/answers/comm- ents. A list of ships and sailing times. "MUST FOLLOW THIS UP" Underlined twice. "CAN'T OVER ESTIMATE IMPORTANCE." Also under- lined. Lists of numbers. Street numbers? Vehicle numbers? What- ever they might be is history because the neon just flashed on. TAYLOR stands in the doorway. The surprise is mutual. The play one-sided. This is already TAYLOR's game. Smokes his cigarette. BERLIN is up to elbows in the jam jar and up to him to explain. He gestures to the right one. BERLIN feels about 2 inches tall. I'm gonna get some coffee. When you finish in here, maybe you'll let me know? .. I got a report to type up .. As he exits he tosses a bunch of keys. They crash uselessly on- to the desk. BERLIN looks like he couldn't get a fuck with mud. BERLIN's face gets ready for something he doesn't say. Why did she have to do this? And why didn't he tell her over the phone? She stands and collects the cups and gets halfway with a smile. I'll make some more coffee. She reaches high into a cupboard. Her shirt stretches over her breasts. Christ this girl has a great figure. Carting hair out of her eyes she returns to the sink. For an instant she's star- ing out of the window and right into somebody's face. Tall and weird looking. But just a glimpse before he moves rapidly away. They stand and BERLIN reaches fast fix on the Vic and BERLIN chews fresh gum. A need- le on a weighing machine quivers. "The liver weighs 1420 grams." A few beers wouldn't do that to you, would they? He emerges from the refrigerator wielding a bottle of champagne. He detours via the kitchen door to shout upstairs. "Hey. Bobby.?" ROSS fights a difficult cork "You wanna get some glasses, Honey?" She's an accounts-manager, very pal- ly with our mayor, up to her elbows in fraud, and I just can't prove it .. The cork explodes and he goes for glasses but one isn't willing. And she's already at the fridge and popping a can of diet cola. Here you go, Honey .. You're looking wonderful, John .. I can't believe we got you here .. A lot of paraphernalia and technical type of shit. The bullet- in board is filling up. Photographs chronicle the hours spent on the dump. He dials with eyes on the pictures. A dozen cata- logue discovery of the bra. "This is Mike Blattis/I can't take your call right now/ If you have a message/You know the sound." Sure he will and six rolls of film are handed across. "Are you winning, Sir?" BERLIN smiles and VENABLES follows him out into the corridor. A couple of Coppers on their way in. One big and morose looking called BISLEY. The other we've already met. Tay- lor is a tall balding guy with hazy reddish hair "How you doin?" BERLIN responds a happy "O.K." with eyes returning to VENABLES. You know something strange about that hand? I think it was frozen? Apparently little. They arrive in the big room. It's deserted. C'mon, Venables, you're a policeman. And policemen always have an answer? A vacuum cleaner starts somewhere but BERLIN isn't hearing it. So | Who invited John Berlin to invite the Eureka police force? | Freddie Ross |
of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if call comes from Delaware Roofing vis-a-vis the estimate. During these proceedings the machine has moved to another call. CITRINE continues up the carpet. "Alright, we'll talk about it." But CITRINE isn't interested in finger nails. He's staring at a polystyrene torso of a faceless girl. She wears a brassiere stuffed with newspaper and a black wig. (Welcome Jennifer Two) She's almost identical to Jennifer. Slim - White - same age - bra size is even the same. Nicely made lady. CITRINE stares at the Dummy like he's gonna ask it a question. He waves a handful of teletype before dumping it on a bench. These cases aren't connected, John? On the board is a super-imposed picture of a hand over a wrist. A question he doesn't need because he hasn't an answer. CITRINE has an eye on further photographs relevant to the Jennifer case. I don't know nothing about this "Jenn- ifer" girl, cept what some of the guys told me - but principal feature of the case was a gruesome displayal of the body. He wanted it found. So if this is the same guy, why's he hidden this one? Another question he can't answer - and this time he doesn't get a chance - BISLEY walks in with an apology for the interruption. Got a face like Humphrey Bogart's mother fucked a different guy. Bisley has gone but his tension stays. BERLIN unwraps fresh gum. This is CITRINE's shop and BERLIN isn't gonna row it with him. He refers to a little bicycle. Vouchered and obviously stolen. By now CITRINE is at the hinges. A pause before he disappears. Why don't you give it a minute, & stop by my office. We should talk. They stop at a light and a beeper goes as warning to the blind. it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously | What find led to the reopening of the case of the murdered girl named Jennifer? | Finding a severed hand at the dump |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought call comes from Delaware Roofing vis-a-vis the estimate. During these proceedings the machine has moved to another call. CITRINE continues up the carpet. "Alright, we'll talk about it." But CITRINE isn't interested in finger nails. He's staring at a polystyrene torso of a faceless girl. She wears a brassiere stuffed with newspaper and a black wig. (Welcome Jennifer Two) She's almost identical to Jennifer. Slim - White - same age - bra size is even the same. Nicely made lady. CITRINE stares at the Dummy like he's gonna ask it a question. He waves a handful of teletype before dumping it on a bench. These cases aren't connected, John? On the board is a super-imposed picture of a hand over a wrist. A question he doesn't need because he hasn't an answer. CITRINE has an eye on further photographs relevant to the Jennifer case. I don't know nothing about this "Jenn- ifer" girl, cept what some of the guys told me - but principal feature of the case was a gruesome displayal of the body. He wanted it found. So if this is the same guy, why's he hidden this one? Another question he can't answer - and this time he doesn't get a chance - BISLEY walks in with an apology for the interruption. Got a face like Humphrey Bogart's mother fucked a different guy. Bisley has gone but his tension stays. BERLIN unwraps fresh gum. This is CITRINE's shop and BERLIN isn't gonna row it with him. He refers to a little bicycle. Vouchered and obviously stolen. By now CITRINE is at the hinges. A pause before he disappears. Why don't you give it a minute, & stop by my office. We should talk. They stop at a light and a beeper goes as warning to the blind. realize how I can get so accurate with my timing? St ANNE backs off and carefully replaces the Sony on the table. Ross switched into channel 8, & we got a recording of the whole incident. I was gonna play it to you, but I got a meeting, we'll have to do it after lunch. It's one, let's make it back by three? Hardly a sound except her own voice. "John? Is that you?" Just the rattle of local Crows and a Bull heaving somewhere in some distant field. "John?" She cautiously descends wood stairs and walks two or three paces before bumping into a brown Chevrolet. Exploration of the car establishes nil. More confused than con- cerned she listens. Country sound and not a sound out of place Then suddenly she is alert. Something clatters somewhere. Like cans kicked in the garage? Was it the garage? "John, is it you?" She returns to the living room. Curtains drawn and almost dark. The endless silence is interrupted by a rush of water in pipes. If anybody's here they're upstairs? HELENA moves to the bottom of them "John, are you up there? It's me, darling. I got a cab." The only reply is more silence. She begins to climb the stairs. One hand on the wall. She ascends slowly. Her helplessness giv- ing way to suspicion with each new step. At the top she pushes into the bedroom "John, are you here? Darling? Are you alright?" Apparently no one is here. Certainly no one in the bed. And no one in the bathroom. She reappears with an expression suppress- ing anxiety. Feels her way past an antique wardrobe. Curiously its door is open. A full length mirror inside. Shuts it as she passes and for a split-instant the Man in the He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously | What leads the detectives to the belief the owner of the severed hand was blind? | Wear on the fingertips from reading Braille |
my message? This last question to ROSS who delivers a typically large shot. And he pushes off to see his wife. BERLIN looks around worried. Perhaps she is a tiny bit tipsy? MARGIE smiles and says "Press." A knock on the door. "Come in" and BOBBY sticks his head inside. She turns to the mirror in exasperation and mends her own face. Alright, tell her I'm coming. No, wait a minute, honey. Take Helena for me, and find John? And don't let go of her hand until you do .. Her protest is absorbed in sound. And anyway he's already gone. At once she is vulnerable. Doesn't know if she's staring at the back of a head or straight into someone's face. "Didn't we meet somewhere?" The question comes from the man with the scar. He's drunk as a dog and already got a tattooed hand around her waist. Trash aftershave and lousy breath and clearly the answer is no. If I told you I'd driven all the way from Oakland would you dance with me? Willy Nelson starts to sing. And HELENA attempts to break away. What's so special about the other guy? You like cops, don't you .. I'm a cop .. HELENA finds the top of a couch. Holds it like a raft of secur- ity. But where ever she goes this frightful mouth is following. .. let me ask you a question? How do you know the difference between one guy and another? .. Maybe you don't .. Maybe you only know the "difference" when you're dancing? (he laughs) If you knew what I looked like, you'd dance with me. I look like John Wayne .. She navigates the back of the sofa. Collides with somebody and apologizes. "I'm sorry. Is anyone sitting there?" Enough ambiv- fast fix on the Vic and BERLIN chews fresh gum. A need- le on a weighing machine quivers. "The liver weighs 1420 grams." A few beers wouldn't do that to you, would they? He emerges from the refrigerator wielding a bottle of champagne. He detours via the kitchen door to shout upstairs. "Hey. Bobby.?" ROSS fights a difficult cork "You wanna get some glasses, Honey?" She's an accounts-manager, very pal- ly with our mayor, up to her elbows in fraud, and I just can't prove it .. The cork explodes and he goes for glasses but one isn't willing. And she's already at the fridge and popping a can of diet cola. Here you go, Honey .. You're looking wonderful, John .. I can't believe we got you here .. A lot of paraphernalia and technical type of shit. The bullet- in board is filling up. Photographs chronicle the hours spent on the dump. He dials with eyes on the pictures. A dozen cata- logue discovery of the bra. "This is Mike Blattis/I can't take your call right now/ If you have a message/You know the sound." Sure he will and six rolls of film are handed across. "Are you winning, Sir?" BERLIN smiles and VENABLES follows him out into the corridor. A couple of Coppers on their way in. One big and morose looking called BISLEY. The other we've already met. Tay- lor is a tall balding guy with hazy reddish hair "How you doin?" BERLIN responds a happy "O.K." with eyes returning to VENABLES. You know something strange about that hand? I think it was frozen? Apparently little. They arrive in the big room. It's deserted. C'mon, Venables, you're a policeman. And policemen always have an answer? A vacuum cleaner starts somewhere but BERLIN isn't hearing it. So turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First call comes from Delaware Roofing vis-a-vis the estimate. During these proceedings the machine has moved to another call. CITRINE continues up the carpet. "Alright, we'll talk about it." But CITRINE isn't interested in finger nails. He's staring at a polystyrene torso of a faceless girl. She wears a brassiere stuffed with newspaper and a black wig. (Welcome Jennifer Two) She's almost identical to Jennifer. Slim - White - same age - bra size is even the same. Nicely made lady. CITRINE stares at the Dummy like he's gonna ask it a question. He waves a handful of teletype before dumping it on a bench. These cases aren't connected, John? On the board is a super-imposed picture of a hand over a wrist. A question he doesn't need because he hasn't an answer. CITRINE has an eye on further photographs relevant to the Jennifer case. I don't know nothing about this "Jenn- ifer" girl, cept what some of the guys told me - but principal feature of the case was a gruesome displayal of the body. He wanted it found. So if this is the same guy, why's he hidden this one? Another question he can't answer - and this time he doesn't get a chance - BISLEY walks in with an apology for the interruption. Got a face like Humphrey Bogart's mother fucked a different guy. Bisley has gone but his tension stays. BERLIN unwraps fresh gum. This is CITRINE's shop and BERLIN isn't gonna row it with him. He refers to a little bicycle. Vouchered and obviously stolen. By now CITRINE is at the hinges. A pause before he disappears. Why don't you give it a minute, & stop by my office. We should talk. They stop at a light and a beeper goes as warning to the blind. | How many women have gone missing in the last four years? | Six women |
of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously | What number victim does Berlin believe Jennifer is? | victim number 7 |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if my message? This last question to ROSS who delivers a typically large shot. And he pushes off to see his wife. BERLIN looks around worried. Perhaps she is a tiny bit tipsy? MARGIE smiles and says "Press." A knock on the door. "Come in" and BOBBY sticks his head inside. She turns to the mirror in exasperation and mends her own face. Alright, tell her I'm coming. No, wait a minute, honey. Take Helena for me, and find John? And don't let go of her hand until you do .. Her protest is absorbed in sound. And anyway he's already gone. At once she is vulnerable. Doesn't know if she's staring at the back of a head or straight into someone's face. "Didn't we meet somewhere?" The question comes from the man with the scar. He's drunk as a dog and already got a tattooed hand around her waist. Trash aftershave and lousy breath and clearly the answer is no. If I told you I'd driven all the way from Oakland would you dance with me? Willy Nelson starts to sing. And HELENA attempts to break away. What's so special about the other guy? You like cops, don't you .. I'm a cop .. HELENA finds the top of a couch. Holds it like a raft of secur- ity. But where ever she goes this frightful mouth is following. .. let me ask you a question? How do you know the difference between one guy and another? .. Maybe you don't .. Maybe you only know the "difference" when you're dancing? (he laughs) If you knew what I looked like, you'd dance with me. I look like John Wayne .. She navigates the back of the sofa. Collides with somebody and apologizes. "I'm sorry. Is anyone sitting there?" Enough ambiv- But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought realize how I can get so accurate with my timing? St ANNE backs off and carefully replaces the Sony on the table. Ross switched into channel 8, & we got a recording of the whole incident. I was gonna play it to you, but I got a meeting, we'll have to do it after lunch. It's one, let's make it back by three? Hardly a sound except her own voice. "John? Is that you?" Just the rattle of local Crows and a Bull heaving somewhere in some distant field. "John?" She cautiously descends wood stairs and walks two or three paces before bumping into a brown Chevrolet. Exploration of the car establishes nil. More confused than con- cerned she listens. Country sound and not a sound out of place Then suddenly she is alert. Something clatters somewhere. Like cans kicked in the garage? Was it the garage? "John, is it you?" She returns to the living room. Curtains drawn and almost dark. The endless silence is interrupted by a rush of water in pipes. If anybody's here they're upstairs? HELENA moves to the bottom of them "John, are you up there? It's me, darling. I got a cab." The only reply is more silence. She begins to climb the stairs. One hand on the wall. She ascends slowly. Her helplessness giv- ing way to suspicion with each new step. At the top she pushes into the bedroom "John, are you here? Darling? Are you alright?" Apparently no one is here. Certainly no one in the bed. And no one in the bathroom. She reappears with an expression suppress- ing anxiety. Feels her way past an antique wardrobe. Curiously its door is open. A full length mirror inside. Shuts it as she passes and for a split-instant the Man in the | Who's roomate was Helena? | Amber |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if call comes from Delaware Roofing vis-a-vis the estimate. During these proceedings the machine has moved to another call. CITRINE continues up the carpet. "Alright, we'll talk about it." But CITRINE isn't interested in finger nails. He's staring at a polystyrene torso of a faceless girl. She wears a brassiere stuffed with newspaper and a black wig. (Welcome Jennifer Two) She's almost identical to Jennifer. Slim - White - same age - bra size is even the same. Nicely made lady. CITRINE stares at the Dummy like he's gonna ask it a question. He waves a handful of teletype before dumping it on a bench. These cases aren't connected, John? On the board is a super-imposed picture of a hand over a wrist. A question he doesn't need because he hasn't an answer. CITRINE has an eye on further photographs relevant to the Jennifer case. I don't know nothing about this "Jenn- ifer" girl, cept what some of the guys told me - but principal feature of the case was a gruesome displayal of the body. He wanted it found. So if this is the same guy, why's he hidden this one? Another question he can't answer - and this time he doesn't get a chance - BISLEY walks in with an apology for the interruption. Got a face like Humphrey Bogart's mother fucked a different guy. Bisley has gone but his tension stays. BERLIN unwraps fresh gum. This is CITRINE's shop and BERLIN isn't gonna row it with him. He refers to a little bicycle. Vouchered and obviously stolen. By now CITRINE is at the hinges. A pause before he disappears. Why don't you give it a minute, & stop by my office. We should talk. They stop at a light and a beeper goes as warning to the blind. But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the | Whos is Amber thought to be? | The eighth victim, Jennifer 8. |
of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought realize how I can get so accurate with my timing? St ANNE backs off and carefully replaces the Sony on the table. Ross switched into channel 8, & we got a recording of the whole incident. I was gonna play it to you, but I got a meeting, we'll have to do it after lunch. It's one, let's make it back by three? Hardly a sound except her own voice. "John? Is that you?" Just the rattle of local Crows and a Bull heaving somewhere in some distant field. "John?" She cautiously descends wood stairs and walks two or three paces before bumping into a brown Chevrolet. Exploration of the car establishes nil. More confused than con- cerned she listens. Country sound and not a sound out of place Then suddenly she is alert. Something clatters somewhere. Like cans kicked in the garage? Was it the garage? "John, is it you?" She returns to the living room. Curtains drawn and almost dark. The endless silence is interrupted by a rush of water in pipes. If anybody's here they're upstairs? HELENA moves to the bottom of them "John, are you up there? It's me, darling. I got a cab." The only reply is more silence. She begins to climb the stairs. One hand on the wall. She ascends slowly. Her helplessness giv- ing way to suspicion with each new step. At the top she pushes into the bedroom "John, are you here? Darling? Are you alright?" Apparently no one is here. Certainly no one in the bed. And no one in the bathroom. She reappears with an expression suppress- ing anxiety. Feels her way past an antique wardrobe. Curiously its door is open. A full length mirror inside. Shuts it as she passes and for a split-instant the Man in the and you're confused, really con- fused .. you don't know if Tuesdays come in two's or happen once a week .. Bit of a cold coming on and near enough for BERLIN to catch it. You see a figure coming up the stairs. Ross ain't meant to be on the stairs? He challenges you .. and this ain't a piece of wood with a nail through it .. this guy's got a 12 gauge Winchester up your nose .. and he's drunk .. and you're dizzy .. and your eye's fulla blood .. you ain't thinking good, and you're seeing worse .. Wow! .. it just went off! .. You just put him down? .. and you get hit by a Glaser, you stay down .. But he ain't dead .. Now, you realize you shot your partner .. "Oh, Suzanna, how do I get outta this?" I know .. The "Serial Killer" shot him .. And here comes the malice, John .. 17 seconds later, you put another one in his throat .. Isn't that what happened? St ANNE Tell us what happened, then? St ANNE Tell me the truth again. The silence is almost total. But something disturbs it. HELENA looks around. Back on her feet she tries to discover source of the sound. Finally arrives at a table lamp. She feels the bulb and it's hot. A large moth beats itself crazy inside the shade. Reaches in and turns it off & the house is in virtual darkness. St ANNE You have? .. How about the booze? .. How does St ANNE know? Perhaps he doesn't? Sounds like he does. Too much booze can be very dangerous .. memory black outs .. stuff like that .. His attention still with notes like a quack about to prescribe. He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously | What agency is St.Anne with? | The FBI |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. Do that, we lose both. I'm sorry, Bro, you're on your own. Music stands. Vacant chairs. BERLIN takes one to watch her re- hearse. Realizes just how beautiful she is. And HELENA realiz- es someone is there. Before she can ask he identifies himself. But she's already fussing about stuffing sheet music in a bag. Matter of fact, I saw a little restaurant place down the road. Looked kinda pretty? I thought maybe we could have some lunch? No answer but the answer is no. BERLIN finds her book for her. Alright, whatever .. Was some- one in here with you? When I came in the door was flapping? Any moment now they turn a corner of the stairs into close-up. Maybe it was a foreign car? Our kinda cars sound "fat." The elevator is parked on this floor with its doors half open. Are you sure you wanna see it? It's another three floors up? Despite breathlessness he does. "How often does it break down?" Oh, all the time. They keep threatening to have it re- placed, but they never will. His smile deteriorates as he realizes she's "staring" at him. What are you staring at, Hel- ena? .. I mean .. I'm sorry .. Nothing happening except the wind. Then a smile as she leaves. I'll get my coat, wait for you downstairs .. And he begins an exploration. Musty bathroom with old-fashion- ed fixtures. A tap leaking behind shower curtains. Nothing in the cabinet. Nothing under the sink. Six steps and he is in a kitchen. Finally finds something worth looking for. Tears the sack out of a vacuum cleaner. Discovers a knot of hair from a black dog. Simultaneously the door slams. Shock powers him in- to the sitting room in time to hear a key | Whose murder is Berlin arrested for? | Ross's murder. |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. heading for the door. A final twist and the lock delivers. Several dozen manilla col- ored files from which to choose. A pair of folders titled Jenn- ifer travel to the desk. The first is full of press-cuttings & some gruesome looking snaps. Next file and this one looks more interesting? A notebook full of random questions/answers/comm- ents. A list of ships and sailing times. "MUST FOLLOW THIS UP" Underlined twice. "CAN'T OVER ESTIMATE IMPORTANCE." Also under- lined. Lists of numbers. Street numbers? Vehicle numbers? What- ever they might be is history because the neon just flashed on. TAYLOR stands in the doorway. The surprise is mutual. The play one-sided. This is already TAYLOR's game. Smokes his cigarette. BERLIN is up to elbows in the jam jar and up to him to explain. He gestures to the right one. BERLIN feels about 2 inches tall. I'm gonna get some coffee. When you finish in here, maybe you'll let me know? .. I got a report to type up .. As he exits he tosses a bunch of keys. They crash uselessly on- to the desk. BERLIN looks like he couldn't get a fuck with mud. BERLIN's face gets ready for something he doesn't say. Why did she have to do this? And why didn't he tell her over the phone? She stands and collects the cups and gets halfway with a smile. I'll make some more coffee. She reaches high into a cupboard. Her shirt stretches over her breasts. Christ this girl has a great figure. Carting hair out of her eyes she returns to the sink. For an instant she's star- ing out of the window and right into somebody's face. Tall and weird looking. But just a glimpse before he moves rapidly away. They stand and BERLIN reaches | Who shoots Berlin? | Margie |
Curious thing about drunks. Their disease often amuses them. That's how crazy I was - I was sick for half a life till I finally found my san- ity again in these rooms. Don't take that drink - And for the one or two new faces I see here, I say this: just do it by the day. You gotta do it by the day - Don't take that drink. And keep coming to these meetings. Because here is where it works .. Ash into an ashtray and now a face. He's around 40 years old. Intense eyes & dark hair. Probably good looking when the ang- le's right. But this is a bad angle. His name is JOHN BERLIN. Maybe via a dissolve. And maybe not. But red and white either way as the headlights are coming on. The Camera is closing on the highway. And a car has definitely been selected. There is nothing much of interest about it. It's a blue Mercedes sedan. Mussorgsky will choreograph the pace of these cuts. The first puts the frame directly in front of the car. In a few moments its brights snap up. And Titles continue in a dazzle of light. BERLIN just about awake on top of it. Ten seconds of disorien- tation while he puts this together. A stone fireplace. Stairs leading to what's got to be a tiny room above. With enough ef- fort this place could be charming. But right now it's a wreck. His lips articulate a silent expletive. The gas has just gone out. Tries to relight it without success. On hands & knees he explores a rubber supply pipe that snakes under the back door. He lights up and takes a cruel hit full of nicotine and guilt. Wouldn't need a clairvoyant to it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if reach BERLIN. MARGIE's hand is on his shoulder. And she heads for the lower deck. A sweet smile as she descends. Anyway, you're doing O. K. She's a sweet heart. And also playing the guitar "In My Life." And she does it well. Slow banging of something swaying. And this exchange goes slow. Whole family wiped out. A bleeper goes on one of the lines and ROSS twists in his seat. Strap me in. Here comes another. And he winds in yet another three quarters of a pound Mackerel. Worst day's fishing I ever had .. ROSS dexterously extracts the hook with serious eyes on BERLIN. Silhouettes with exaggerated shadows walk across the car park. What does she do? The angle changes and is closer now. HELENA has taken his arm. You don't ask what I'm like? BERLIN is more amused than annoyed. They arrive at the car and his suggestion is met with an appropriate response from HELENA. "I can't drive a car." Doesn't like cars. But he's not hearing. C'mon it'll be fun. You can drive me around in circles .. No lady ever had a driving lesson like this before. BERLIN all but sits in her seat. Arm on the back of it. Hand on the wheel. For a split second they're doing 60. Now they're doing about 4. The Mercedes spirals in widening circles. Instructions and enc- ouragement from BERLIN .. O.K. .. Straight now .. The Mercedes straightens and heads through the dunes. "It's a big car park?" We're going along a little track. HELENA may like driving but she doesn't like the sound of that. It's O.K. It's not a public road. Headlights behind them approach quickly. Disappear and reappear as they follow the geography of the dunes. BERLIN only now bec- omes aware turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the | Who invites John Berlin to come to california? | Freddy Ross |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the fast fix on the Vic and BERLIN chews fresh gum. A need- le on a weighing machine quivers. "The liver weighs 1420 grams." A few beers wouldn't do that to you, would they? He emerges from the refrigerator wielding a bottle of champagne. He detours via the kitchen door to shout upstairs. "Hey. Bobby.?" ROSS fights a difficult cork "You wanna get some glasses, Honey?" She's an accounts-manager, very pal- ly with our mayor, up to her elbows in fraud, and I just can't prove it .. The cork explodes and he goes for glasses but one isn't willing. And she's already at the fridge and popping a can of diet cola. Here you go, Honey .. You're looking wonderful, John .. I can't believe we got you here .. A lot of paraphernalia and technical type of shit. The bullet- in board is filling up. Photographs chronicle the hours spent on the dump. He dials with eyes on the pictures. A dozen cata- logue discovery of the bra. "This is Mike Blattis/I can't take your call right now/ If you have a message/You know the sound." Sure he will and six rolls of film are handed across. "Are you winning, Sir?" BERLIN smiles and VENABLES follows him out into the corridor. A couple of Coppers on their way in. One big and morose looking called BISLEY. The other we've already met. Tay- lor is a tall balding guy with hazy reddish hair "How you doin?" BERLIN responds a happy "O.K." with eyes returning to VENABLES. You know something strange about that hand? I think it was frozen? Apparently little. They arrive in the big room. It's deserted. C'mon, Venables, you're a policeman. And policemen always have an answer? A vacuum cleaner starts somewhere but BERLIN isn't hearing it. So heading for the door. A final twist and the lock delivers. Several dozen manilla col- ored files from which to choose. A pair of folders titled Jenn- ifer travel to the desk. The first is full of press-cuttings & some gruesome looking snaps. Next file and this one looks more interesting? A notebook full of random questions/answers/comm- ents. A list of ships and sailing times. "MUST FOLLOW THIS UP" Underlined twice. "CAN'T OVER ESTIMATE IMPORTANCE." Also under- lined. Lists of numbers. Street numbers? Vehicle numbers? What- ever they might be is history because the neon just flashed on. TAYLOR stands in the doorway. The surprise is mutual. The play one-sided. This is already TAYLOR's game. Smokes his cigarette. BERLIN is up to elbows in the jam jar and up to him to explain. He gestures to the right one. BERLIN feels about 2 inches tall. I'm gonna get some coffee. When you finish in here, maybe you'll let me know? .. I got a report to type up .. As he exits he tosses a bunch of keys. They crash uselessly on- to the desk. BERLIN looks like he couldn't get a fuck with mud. BERLIN's face gets ready for something he doesn't say. Why did she have to do this? And why didn't he tell her over the phone? She stands and collects the cups and gets halfway with a smile. I'll make some more coffee. She reaches high into a cupboard. Her shirt stretches over her breasts. Christ this girl has a great figure. Carting hair out of her eyes she returns to the sink. For an instant she's star- ing out of the window and right into somebody's face. Tall and weird looking. But just a glimpse before he moves rapidly away. They stand and BERLIN reaches | What does John Berlin find in a garbage bag at the dump? | a severed hand |
Curious thing about drunks. Their disease often amuses them. That's how crazy I was - I was sick for half a life till I finally found my san- ity again in these rooms. Don't take that drink - And for the one or two new faces I see here, I say this: just do it by the day. You gotta do it by the day - Don't take that drink. And keep coming to these meetings. Because here is where it works .. Ash into an ashtray and now a face. He's around 40 years old. Intense eyes & dark hair. Probably good looking when the ang- le's right. But this is a bad angle. His name is JOHN BERLIN. Maybe via a dissolve. And maybe not. But red and white either way as the headlights are coming on. The Camera is closing on the highway. And a car has definitely been selected. There is nothing much of interest about it. It's a blue Mercedes sedan. Mussorgsky will choreograph the pace of these cuts. The first puts the frame directly in front of the car. In a few moments its brights snap up. And Titles continue in a dazzle of light. BERLIN just about awake on top of it. Ten seconds of disorien- tation while he puts this together. A stone fireplace. Stairs leading to what's got to be a tiny room above. With enough ef- fort this place could be charming. But right now it's a wreck. His lips articulate a silent expletive. The gas has just gone out. Tries to relight it without success. On hands & knees he explores a rubber supply pipe that snakes under the back door. He lights up and takes a cruel hit full of nicotine and guilt. Wouldn't need a clairvoyant to of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought | Why does John Berlin think the owner of the hand must have been blind? | Because of the wear on her fingertips. |
But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought fast fix on the Vic and BERLIN chews fresh gum. A need- le on a weighing machine quivers. "The liver weighs 1420 grams." A few beers wouldn't do that to you, would they? He emerges from the refrigerator wielding a bottle of champagne. He detours via the kitchen door to shout upstairs. "Hey. Bobby.?" ROSS fights a difficult cork "You wanna get some glasses, Honey?" She's an accounts-manager, very pal- ly with our mayor, up to her elbows in fraud, and I just can't prove it .. The cork explodes and he goes for glasses but one isn't willing. And she's already at the fridge and popping a can of diet cola. Here you go, Honey .. You're looking wonderful, John .. I can't believe we got you here .. A lot of paraphernalia and technical type of shit. The bullet- in board is filling up. Photographs chronicle the hours spent on the dump. He dials with eyes on the pictures. A dozen cata- logue discovery of the bra. "This is Mike Blattis/I can't take your call right now/ If you have a message/You know the sound." Sure he will and six rolls of film are handed across. "Are you winning, Sir?" BERLIN smiles and VENABLES follows him out into the corridor. A couple of Coppers on their way in. One big and morose looking called BISLEY. The other we've already met. Tay- lor is a tall balding guy with hazy reddish hair "How you doin?" BERLIN responds a happy "O.K." with eyes returning to VENABLES. You know something strange about that hand? I think it was frozen? Apparently little. They arrive in the big room. It's deserted. C'mon, Venables, you're a policeman. And policemen always have an answer? A vacuum cleaner starts somewhere but BERLIN isn't hearing it. So turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. | How many women does John Berlin discover have gone missing in the past 4 years? | Six |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if call comes from Delaware Roofing vis-a-vis the estimate. During these proceedings the machine has moved to another call. CITRINE continues up the carpet. "Alright, we'll talk about it." But CITRINE isn't interested in finger nails. He's staring at a polystyrene torso of a faceless girl. She wears a brassiere stuffed with newspaper and a black wig. (Welcome Jennifer Two) She's almost identical to Jennifer. Slim - White - same age - bra size is even the same. Nicely made lady. CITRINE stares at the Dummy like he's gonna ask it a question. He waves a handful of teletype before dumping it on a bench. These cases aren't connected, John? On the board is a super-imposed picture of a hand over a wrist. A question he doesn't need because he hasn't an answer. CITRINE has an eye on further photographs relevant to the Jennifer case. I don't know nothing about this "Jenn- ifer" girl, cept what some of the guys told me - but principal feature of the case was a gruesome displayal of the body. He wanted it found. So if this is the same guy, why's he hidden this one? Another question he can't answer - and this time he doesn't get a chance - BISLEY walks in with an apology for the interruption. Got a face like Humphrey Bogart's mother fucked a different guy. Bisley has gone but his tension stays. BERLIN unwraps fresh gum. This is CITRINE's shop and BERLIN isn't gonna row it with him. He refers to a little bicycle. Vouchered and obviously stolen. By now CITRINE is at the hinges. A pause before he disappears. Why don't you give it a minute, & stop by my office. We should talk. They stop at a light and a beeper goes as warning to the blind. realize how I can get so accurate with my timing? St ANNE backs off and carefully replaces the Sony on the table. Ross switched into channel 8, & we got a recording of the whole incident. I was gonna play it to you, but I got a meeting, we'll have to do it after lunch. It's one, let's make it back by three? Hardly a sound except her own voice. "John? Is that you?" Just the rattle of local Crows and a Bull heaving somewhere in some distant field. "John?" She cautiously descends wood stairs and walks two or three paces before bumping into a brown Chevrolet. Exploration of the car establishes nil. More confused than con- cerned she listens. Country sound and not a sound out of place Then suddenly she is alert. Something clatters somewhere. Like cans kicked in the garage? Was it the garage? "John, is it you?" She returns to the living room. Curtains drawn and almost dark. The endless silence is interrupted by a rush of water in pipes. If anybody's here they're upstairs? HELENA moves to the bottom of them "John, are you up there? It's me, darling. I got a cab." The only reply is more silence. She begins to climb the stairs. One hand on the wall. She ascends slowly. Her helplessness giv- ing way to suspicion with each new step. At the top she pushes into the bedroom "John, are you here? Darling? Are you alright?" Apparently no one is here. Certainly no one in the bed. And no one in the bathroom. She reappears with an expression suppress- ing anxiety. Feels her way past an antique wardrobe. Curiously its door is open. A full length mirror inside. Shuts it as she passes and for a split-instant the Man in the from me? She slings the dress on the bed. It joins a pile of rehearsals. Moves deeper into her dresses and HELENA appears in the mirror. She pirouettes with black sequins. "What do you think of black?" Evidently not much and MARGIE is getting short of alternatives. Wait a minute, I just had the most brilliant idea .. She emerges from the wardrobe with red satin high heeled shoes. Here .. try these .. if these fit, we got the perfect dress .. HELENA is excited to try them out. The experiment is a success. I'll go get the dress .. It's kinda sultry .. I only wore it once, coz in reality, I can't get away with it .. But he's already lost BERLIN's attention. MARGIE walks in with HELENA. Jesus what have you done to her? Bright red lipstick & jet black mascara and dress made of blood red sequins. Sexy it is but her it isn't. She looks like one of those big tit dopes from Tennessee. She also looks like 37 million dollars. Christ that smile works with paint. An appraisal comes from ROSS "Wow." But someone is staring at them. About forty years old with big hands. Too old for acne but the skin is bad. Got a scar on his cheek like a ladder in a stocking. He continues to stare until the dancers separate. Music ends and he's already in the crowd. BERLIN arrives with a whisper for MARGIE and next thing HELENA is on her arm heading for the stairs. Obviously a "ladies room" run. Everly Brothers next record up and SERATO appears through the crush. Spots ROSS who wants to know "What happened to you?" "How long have you got?" "One big drink." And they head for it. Did you get | What was "jennifer" 8's real name? | Amber |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the from me? She slings the dress on the bed. It joins a pile of rehearsals. Moves deeper into her dresses and HELENA appears in the mirror. She pirouettes with black sequins. "What do you think of black?" Evidently not much and MARGIE is getting short of alternatives. Wait a minute, I just had the most brilliant idea .. She emerges from the wardrobe with red satin high heeled shoes. Here .. try these .. if these fit, we got the perfect dress .. HELENA is excited to try them out. The experiment is a success. I'll go get the dress .. It's kinda sultry .. I only wore it once, coz in reality, I can't get away with it .. But he's already lost BERLIN's attention. MARGIE walks in with HELENA. Jesus what have you done to her? Bright red lipstick & jet black mascara and dress made of blood red sequins. Sexy it is but her it isn't. She looks like one of those big tit dopes from Tennessee. She also looks like 37 million dollars. Christ that smile works with paint. An appraisal comes from ROSS "Wow." But someone is staring at them. About forty years old with big hands. Too old for acne but the skin is bad. Got a scar on his cheek like a ladder in a stocking. He continues to stare until the dancers separate. Music ends and he's already in the crowd. BERLIN arrives with a whisper for MARGIE and next thing HELENA is on her arm heading for the stairs. Obviously a "ladies room" run. Everly Brothers next record up and SERATO appears through the crush. Spots ROSS who wants to know "What happened to you?" "How long have you got?" "One big drink." And they head for it. Did you get She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously | What does the killer use to murder Ross? | John Berlin's gun |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. heading for the door. A final twist and the lock delivers. Several dozen manilla col- ored files from which to choose. A pair of folders titled Jenn- ifer travel to the desk. The first is full of press-cuttings & some gruesome looking snaps. Next file and this one looks more interesting? A notebook full of random questions/answers/comm- ents. A list of ships and sailing times. "MUST FOLLOW THIS UP" Underlined twice. "CAN'T OVER ESTIMATE IMPORTANCE." Also under- lined. Lists of numbers. Street numbers? Vehicle numbers? What- ever they might be is history because the neon just flashed on. TAYLOR stands in the doorway. The surprise is mutual. The play one-sided. This is already TAYLOR's game. Smokes his cigarette. BERLIN is up to elbows in the jam jar and up to him to explain. He gestures to the right one. BERLIN feels about 2 inches tall. I'm gonna get some coffee. When you finish in here, maybe you'll let me know? .. I got a report to type up .. As he exits he tosses a bunch of keys. They crash uselessly on- to the desk. BERLIN looks like he couldn't get a fuck with mud. BERLIN's face gets ready for something he doesn't say. Why did she have to do this? And why didn't he tell her over the phone? She stands and collects the cups and gets halfway with a smile. I'll make some more coffee. She reaches high into a cupboard. Her shirt stretches over her breasts. Christ this girl has a great figure. Carting hair out of her eyes she returns to the sink. For an instant she's star- ing out of the window and right into somebody's face. Tall and weird looking. But just a glimpse before he moves rapidly away. They stand and BERLIN reaches now but lamp posts and rain. Still climbing the Datsun takes a side street. BERLIN keeps 50 yards behind. She turns off and parks in a sloping driveway. A white Volkswagen van at the top of it. BERLIN has already pull- ed over. Kills his lights and watches her hurry into the house. And she stares like he does not. Before she stares like he does. You're Amanda? Remember, you near- ly ran into me? Way up in Trinity? His smile disarms the securities. And she opens the front door. His hopes are collapsing by the moment and nothing else is left. Would you mind if I took a look at it? The Cat cries for its food and AMANDA begins to look suspicious. The only man that has driven it in the last 6 months is my uncle. And no way is he involved in a robbery. Maybe too much charge in his head and she doesn't like the vibe? Sure she can and he searches for it. "Must have left it at home?" Then you better go and get it. I feel uncomfortable without an I.D. AMANDA opens the front door just long enough for BERLIN to leave. HELENA looks in utmost despair. "Is it true he resisted arrest?" You'll have to put that question to the Chief. I've nothing to add. BOBBY appears somewhere behind the Ladies. T.V. commentary con- tinues. "Meanwhile, Sergeant Berlin remains in a cell at police headquarters arraigned on what is believed to be a $500,000.00 bail. As Mayor Heineman said, this, is a 'sad day' for Eureka." Except for the one face that isn't sad and it belongs to BOBBY. But he isn't and CITRINE moves off. BERLIN cracks blood out of knuckles on the glass. Hollers up the corridor after least a yard of homicide out of the machine. Can't believe what he's looking at. "Jesus. He hit six." Reads as he walks back into the big room and gets interrupted by a call. "Miss Robertson. Holding." He heads for the phone with eyes following ANN "Find Ross for me, will you?" BERLIN (Phone) Berlin .. yeah .. that's nice of you, Helena, but I already found out .. black, yes .. No, no, of course not, good of you to call .. You heard a what? .. A hollow car? A hand shoves papers at the edge of his vision. TAYLOR looks a mite cheesy. "You got a minute for this?" And BERLIN nods sure. Yes, I'm still here .. Why didn't you mention that? .. I see .. Al- right, we should talk again .. No, I'm just south of my eye-lids in it right now .. How about Sunday? ROSS detours eyes to wave at his Son. "Watch those revs there." Would you shut it down a min- ute, Ross? This is important. ROSS signals BOBBY to turn off. And the diesel splutters down. And this is the second time they stop and stare at each other. That old Wino on the heap wasn't a suicide. He stumbled into some- thing, saw something, and whoever took him out knew how to fake it. Says it with remarkable humility considering he's the "expert." I'm going in to see Citrine this afternoon. Will you come with me? They arrive at the Chandler's with BERLIN in no mood to smile. But he doesn't really believe it. And doesn't enjoy saying no. But I can't help you with this. We can't go through the door with two contentious issues, you with a mass murderer, and me with the Mayor's best friend. | Who is the FBI agent who interrogates John Berlin? | St. Anne |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the from me? She slings the dress on the bed. It joins a pile of rehearsals. Moves deeper into her dresses and HELENA appears in the mirror. She pirouettes with black sequins. "What do you think of black?" Evidently not much and MARGIE is getting short of alternatives. Wait a minute, I just had the most brilliant idea .. She emerges from the wardrobe with red satin high heeled shoes. Here .. try these .. if these fit, we got the perfect dress .. HELENA is excited to try them out. The experiment is a success. I'll go get the dress .. It's kinda sultry .. I only wore it once, coz in reality, I can't get away with it .. But he's already lost BERLIN's attention. MARGIE walks in with HELENA. Jesus what have you done to her? Bright red lipstick & jet black mascara and dress made of blood red sequins. Sexy it is but her it isn't. She looks like one of those big tit dopes from Tennessee. She also looks like 37 million dollars. Christ that smile works with paint. An appraisal comes from ROSS "Wow." But someone is staring at them. About forty years old with big hands. Too old for acne but the skin is bad. Got a scar on his cheek like a ladder in a stocking. He continues to stare until the dancers separate. Music ends and he's already in the crowd. BERLIN arrives with a whisper for MARGIE and next thing HELENA is on her arm heading for the stairs. Obviously a "ladies room" run. Everly Brothers next record up and SERATO appears through the crush. Spots ROSS who wants to know "What happened to you?" "How long have you got?" "One big drink." And they head for it. Did you get He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. | Who is arrested for Ross's murder? | John Berlin |
turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought | What ultimately happens to the killer at the end of the story? | He is shot by Margie |
But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if reach BERLIN. MARGIE's hand is on his shoulder. And she heads for the lower deck. A sweet smile as she descends. Anyway, you're doing O. K. She's a sweet heart. And also playing the guitar "In My Life." And she does it well. Slow banging of something swaying. And this exchange goes slow. Whole family wiped out. A bleeper goes on one of the lines and ROSS twists in his seat. Strap me in. Here comes another. And he winds in yet another three quarters of a pound Mackerel. Worst day's fishing I ever had .. ROSS dexterously extracts the hook with serious eyes on BERLIN. Silhouettes with exaggerated shadows walk across the car park. What does she do? The angle changes and is closer now. HELENA has taken his arm. You don't ask what I'm like? BERLIN is more amused than annoyed. They arrive at the car and his suggestion is met with an appropriate response from HELENA. "I can't drive a car." Doesn't like cars. But he's not hearing. C'mon it'll be fun. You can drive me around in circles .. No lady ever had a driving lesson like this before. BERLIN all but sits in her seat. Arm on the back of it. Hand on the wheel. For a split second they're doing 60. Now they're doing about 4. The Mercedes spirals in widening circles. Instructions and enc- ouragement from BERLIN .. O.K. .. Straight now .. The Mercedes straightens and heads through the dunes. "It's a big car park?" We're going along a little track. HELENA may like driving but she doesn't like the sound of that. It's O.K. It's not a public road. Headlights behind them approach quickly. Disappear and reappear as they follow the geography of the dunes. BERLIN only now bec- omes aware fast fix on the Vic and BERLIN chews fresh gum. A need- le on a weighing machine quivers. "The liver weighs 1420 grams." A few beers wouldn't do that to you, would they? He emerges from the refrigerator wielding a bottle of champagne. He detours via the kitchen door to shout upstairs. "Hey. Bobby.?" ROSS fights a difficult cork "You wanna get some glasses, Honey?" She's an accounts-manager, very pal- ly with our mayor, up to her elbows in fraud, and I just can't prove it .. The cork explodes and he goes for glasses but one isn't willing. And she's already at the fridge and popping a can of diet cola. Here you go, Honey .. You're looking wonderful, John .. I can't believe we got you here .. A lot of paraphernalia and technical type of shit. The bullet- in board is filling up. Photographs chronicle the hours spent on the dump. He dials with eyes on the pictures. A dozen cata- logue discovery of the bra. "This is Mike Blattis/I can't take your call right now/ If you have a message/You know the sound." Sure he will and six rolls of film are handed across. "Are you winning, Sir?" BERLIN smiles and VENABLES follows him out into the corridor. A couple of Coppers on their way in. One big and morose looking called BISLEY. The other we've already met. Tay- lor is a tall balding guy with hazy reddish hair "How you doin?" BERLIN responds a happy "O.K." with eyes returning to VENABLES. You know something strange about that hand? I think it was frozen? Apparently little. They arrive in the big room. It's deserted. C'mon, Venables, you're a policeman. And policemen always have an answer? A vacuum cleaner starts somewhere but BERLIN isn't hearing it. So | Why does Berlin head to Eureka for a job? | An old friend, Freddy Ross, asked for his help. |
reach BERLIN. MARGIE's hand is on his shoulder. And she heads for the lower deck. A sweet smile as she descends. Anyway, you're doing O. K. She's a sweet heart. And also playing the guitar "In My Life." And she does it well. Slow banging of something swaying. And this exchange goes slow. Whole family wiped out. A bleeper goes on one of the lines and ROSS twists in his seat. Strap me in. Here comes another. And he winds in yet another three quarters of a pound Mackerel. Worst day's fishing I ever had .. ROSS dexterously extracts the hook with serious eyes on BERLIN. Silhouettes with exaggerated shadows walk across the car park. What does she do? The angle changes and is closer now. HELENA has taken his arm. You don't ask what I'm like? BERLIN is more amused than annoyed. They arrive at the car and his suggestion is met with an appropriate response from HELENA. "I can't drive a car." Doesn't like cars. But he's not hearing. C'mon it'll be fun. You can drive me around in circles .. No lady ever had a driving lesson like this before. BERLIN all but sits in her seat. Arm on the back of it. Hand on the wheel. For a split second they're doing 60. Now they're doing about 4. The Mercedes spirals in widening circles. Instructions and enc- ouragement from BERLIN .. O.K. .. Straight now .. The Mercedes straightens and heads through the dunes. "It's a big car park?" We're going along a little track. HELENA may like driving but she doesn't like the sound of that. It's O.K. It's not a public road. Headlights behind them approach quickly. Disappear and reappear as they follow the geography of the dunes. BERLIN only now bec- omes aware of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought fast fix on the Vic and BERLIN chews fresh gum. A need- le on a weighing machine quivers. "The liver weighs 1420 grams." A few beers wouldn't do that to you, would they? He emerges from the refrigerator wielding a bottle of champagne. He detours via the kitchen door to shout upstairs. "Hey. Bobby.?" ROSS fights a difficult cork "You wanna get some glasses, Honey?" She's an accounts-manager, very pal- ly with our mayor, up to her elbows in fraud, and I just can't prove it .. The cork explodes and he goes for glasses but one isn't willing. And she's already at the fridge and popping a can of diet cola. Here you go, Honey .. You're looking wonderful, John .. I can't believe we got you here .. A lot of paraphernalia and technical type of shit. The bullet- in board is filling up. Photographs chronicle the hours spent on the dump. He dials with eyes on the pictures. A dozen cata- logue discovery of the bra. "This is Mike Blattis/I can't take your call right now/ If you have a message/You know the sound." Sure he will and six rolls of film are handed across. "Are you winning, Sir?" BERLIN smiles and VENABLES follows him out into the corridor. A couple of Coppers on their way in. One big and morose looking called BISLEY. The other we've already met. Tay- lor is a tall balding guy with hazy reddish hair "How you doin?" BERLIN responds a happy "O.K." with eyes returning to VENABLES. You know something strange about that hand? I think it was frozen? Apparently little. They arrive in the big room. It's deserted. C'mon, Venables, you're a policeman. And policemen always have an answer? A vacuum cleaner starts somewhere but BERLIN isn't hearing it. So it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First | How is Berlin recieved at the department? | His new colleagues are unfriendly toward him |
reach BERLIN. MARGIE's hand is on his shoulder. And she heads for the lower deck. A sweet smile as she descends. Anyway, you're doing O. K. She's a sweet heart. And also playing the guitar "In My Life." And she does it well. Slow banging of something swaying. And this exchange goes slow. Whole family wiped out. A bleeper goes on one of the lines and ROSS twists in his seat. Strap me in. Here comes another. And he winds in yet another three quarters of a pound Mackerel. Worst day's fishing I ever had .. ROSS dexterously extracts the hook with serious eyes on BERLIN. Silhouettes with exaggerated shadows walk across the car park. What does she do? The angle changes and is closer now. HELENA has taken his arm. You don't ask what I'm like? BERLIN is more amused than annoyed. They arrive at the car and his suggestion is met with an appropriate response from HELENA. "I can't drive a car." Doesn't like cars. But he's not hearing. C'mon it'll be fun. You can drive me around in circles .. No lady ever had a driving lesson like this before. BERLIN all but sits in her seat. Arm on the back of it. Hand on the wheel. For a split second they're doing 60. Now they're doing about 4. The Mercedes spirals in widening circles. Instructions and enc- ouragement from BERLIN .. O.K. .. Straight now .. The Mercedes straightens and heads through the dunes. "It's a big car park?" We're going along a little track. HELENA may like driving but she doesn't like the sound of that. It's O.K. It's not a public road. Headlights behind them approach quickly. Disappear and reappear as they follow the geography of the dunes. BERLIN only now bec- omes aware But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the call. BERLIN (New call) Hello .. Yes .. This is Sergeant Berlin .. Yes, that's right .. I believe my assistant explained? .. How long ago was that? .. Uh-huh. O.K. .. Who is who? .. Whass his name? Goodridge? O.K. I'll hold .. ROSS in transit grinning from ear to ear. BERLIN interested in little but his notes and ROSS in nothing but obvious good news. Ross's car bursts into frame and as quickly the bend snatches it away. An unexpected building in the distance. Victorian at a glance but probably later. A clock tower and fifty lifeless windows. The Chevy disappears towards its somber architecture. He doesn't like them but not as much as ROSS doesn't like him. ROSS could sock him in the crop but the phone rings and he ex- cuses himself to answer it. Whatever he hears he isn't liking. You have an appointment with Miss Robertson? Here come footsteps and the door is opened by HELENA ROBERTSON. Early 20's and blonde and not immediately beautiful. But delic- ate features than need no make up and big dark eyes. They look away for introductions as though she's shy. ROSS & BERLIN grab glances as they follow in. Neither expected HELENA to be blind. Lots of headshake. And lots of silences. "I really don't know." That's O.K. Can you give me any idea what this fellow was like? (Headshake) Well, d'you know how old he was? (Headshake) Alright, let me put it this way? How old d'you think I am? Twenty- six? Thirty-nine? Or fifty-three? Possibly the only grin ROSS is going to get out of this place. A good point. And a point taken. And BERLIN might even say so. We don't have some kind of sixth-sense, you know. Ex- cept in ridiculous novels .. | Why does Berlin re-open a missing persons case in Eureka? | Because he thinks the case is connected to other cases. |
But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the Do that, we lose both. I'm sorry, Bro, you're on your own. Music stands. Vacant chairs. BERLIN takes one to watch her re- hearse. Realizes just how beautiful she is. And HELENA realiz- es someone is there. Before she can ask he identifies himself. But she's already fussing about stuffing sheet music in a bag. Matter of fact, I saw a little restaurant place down the road. Looked kinda pretty? I thought maybe we could have some lunch? No answer but the answer is no. BERLIN finds her book for her. Alright, whatever .. Was some- one in here with you? When I came in the door was flapping? Any moment now they turn a corner of the stairs into close-up. Maybe it was a foreign car? Our kinda cars sound "fat." The elevator is parked on this floor with its doors half open. Are you sure you wanna see it? It's another three floors up? Despite breathlessness he does. "How often does it break down?" Oh, all the time. They keep threatening to have it re- placed, but they never will. His smile deteriorates as he realizes she's "staring" at him. What are you staring at, Hel- ena? .. I mean .. I'm sorry .. Nothing happening except the wind. Then a smile as she leaves. I'll get my coat, wait for you downstairs .. And he begins an exploration. Musty bathroom with old-fashion- ed fixtures. A tap leaking behind shower curtains. Nothing in the cabinet. Nothing under the sink. Six steps and he is in a kitchen. Finally finds something worth looking for. Tears the sack out of a vacuum cleaner. Discovers a knot of hair from a black dog. Simultaneously the door slams. Shock powers him in- to the sitting room in time to hear a key | What does Berlin believe about the missing persons case and the severed hand? | That the two cases are related. |
But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. fast fix on the Vic and BERLIN chews fresh gum. A need- le on a weighing machine quivers. "The liver weighs 1420 grams." A few beers wouldn't do that to you, would they? He emerges from the refrigerator wielding a bottle of champagne. He detours via the kitchen door to shout upstairs. "Hey. Bobby.?" ROSS fights a difficult cork "You wanna get some glasses, Honey?" She's an accounts-manager, very pal- ly with our mayor, up to her elbows in fraud, and I just can't prove it .. The cork explodes and he goes for glasses but one isn't willing. And she's already at the fridge and popping a can of diet cola. Here you go, Honey .. You're looking wonderful, John .. I can't believe we got you here .. A lot of paraphernalia and technical type of shit. The bullet- in board is filling up. Photographs chronicle the hours spent on the dump. He dials with eyes on the pictures. A dozen cata- logue discovery of the bra. "This is Mike Blattis/I can't take your call right now/ If you have a message/You know the sound." Sure he will and six rolls of film are handed across. "Are you winning, Sir?" BERLIN smiles and VENABLES follows him out into the corridor. A couple of Coppers on their way in. One big and morose looking called BISLEY. The other we've already met. Tay- lor is a tall balding guy with hazy reddish hair "How you doin?" BERLIN responds a happy "O.K." with eyes returning to VENABLES. You know something strange about that hand? I think it was frozen? Apparently little. They arrive in the big room. It's deserted. C'mon, Venables, you're a policeman. And policemen always have an answer? A vacuum cleaner starts somewhere but BERLIN isn't hearing it. So | When Berlin digs in deeper to missing persons cases, what does he discover? | That six women, most of whom are blind, have disappeared within a radius of San Diego. |
of them. one more dip and they slam in. Her anxiety is misinterpreted. He takes the wheel. No problem. Let him pass. The vehicle is right up behind them. As it overtakes HELENA is scared. And still scared even though BERLIN has stopped the car. It's alright, I'm sorry. It was my fault, it wasn't a good idea. Just time to see tail lights of a van disappearing in the gloom. BERLIN [Phone] .. [is it a two door, slide door, a what?] I don't know [Well, you gotta get closer than just a V.W. van. You- 're talking maybe 10/15 thousand veh- icles?] What happens if you just run the name "John" against all of them? Heads for a sofa. Paperback of "Hamlet." TV on without sound. [Frankly, that isn't gonna do you any good. You'll be knocking on doors all over the state. You gotta request tho- se "Jennifer" files - maybe something in them, give us some kinda reference?] Christmas ads interrupt the movie. BERLIN sighs in frustration. Starts doodling on the paperback. Shakespeare acquires glasses. I can't request anything right now .. push one more inch, I lose the lot .. [Well, listen, I'll run the Bay Area for you. But if you want a print-out of every John in California with a V. W. van, that's gotta be official. I'm sorry] .. That's O.K. Thank you, Dan .. He floats the letter across the desk and hears the explanation. CITRINE rubs his forehead in preparation to change the subject, If there was any argument to be had BERLIN would be arguing it. I don't want you up at that institute again .. and I'm flat-out about that .. I'm sorry, I know it means something to you - you can go tell your witness if But ain't life strange? You're my little buddy now .. I guess we all got lucky? The ASSISTANT does it via phone. And BISLEY looks over unhappy. St ANNE comes in blowing his nose. CITRINE shoves him the mess~ age. He reads it with similar incredulity (but perhaps a touch more amusement than Citrine) "What d'you wanna do with it, Sir?" What do you wanna do with it? St ANNE Let him have it .. I don't mind putting a little salt at the edge of his plate .. SERATO keeps it dispassionate. Ignores BERLIN's desperate eyes. Puts a thumb towards the house and already heading for his oar. She's a bad witness, John. But a fucking lousy alibi. By now BERLIN and his glass of anaesthetic are well into frame. No one in the State of California is gonna believe that. They got the man in there - an A/1 F.B.I. inter- rogator, and he's taking me to pie- ces - doesn't believe a word comes outta my head - not a word - no one believes me - I don't believe me .. He doesn't want to. But now he's got to. And so here it comes. Back at the booze and he's almost inaudible "Stop it, will you?" Why didn't he kill me, John? Something snaps in BERLIN and he throws his glass at the grate. And just as suddenly he's full of remorse. Takes HELENA in his arms with a lot of sorrys. But she isn't interested in apology. There's a passion in her face. And fire even in her blind eyes. And BERLIN rolls out and stares up like a mechanic under a car. He used a breath freshener. HELENA stands in the doorway and BERLIN is already on his feet. BERLIN wipes a thought it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the | What does Berlin believe about Jennifer and the owner of the missing hand? | He believes they are the seventh and eighth victims of the serial killer. |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the "Would you like me to put your music on?" No, she doesn't want music. O.K. He's gonna light the fire and make them lunch. A log tangents off. BERLIN retrieves it. Tosses it in a barrow. A distant owl hoots. She knows he's smiling. She's smiling too. HELENA cuddles knees in the corner of a sofa. Looks considerab- ly more relaxed. But there's a tension here and both are aware of it. Stifled yawns. She stares at him and BERLIN stares back. A billion people in love have been through this. It's bed-time. [A suggestion of Berlin's bed to be is heaped in pillows/blank- ets at the end of the couch.] "Come on, I'll take you up there." She finds his hand and stands. The Music follows them upstairs. Christ hear this Music. A sweet pulse of Puccini. Big close of lips meeting in moonlight. Now in each other's arms. They kiss. And then they're kissing. And nothing else is happening in the whole fucking universe except a telephone just started to ring. Still ringing. Still kissing. Somebody has got to give in. The phone finally gets answered. The voice at the end isn't expect- ed. But BERLIN sounds pleased to hear it. It seems one problem got solved. "I gotta tell you, Margie. You are Mrs Santa Claus." Swallowing beer ROSS exits the back door with BERLIN following. It's her invitation. And as far as Citrine in concerned, better we keep it like that. The wagon waits outside with a few crates left to unload, BER- LIN heads for his Mercedes with ROSS calling after him. "John. Here." Pulls a six pack from his supplies and throws it across. There's an old desperado in one of the cells. Why don't you give him this, and tell him happy Christmas I understand. Then? St ANNE Could you see out of it? St ANNE Were you breathless? St ANNE When did you realize you were no longer in possession of the .25? St ANNE You figure you lost it in the hospital? Or on the way there? St ANNE [BERLIN] Like the flashlight? [Yeah] Had you been drinking that night? St ANNE That wasn't my question? St ANNE [BERLIN] How about Ross? [Sure] Were you drinking in the car? [?] There was a bottle in the car? St ANNE But not you? St ANNE To keep out the cold? .. Very cold that night, very windy, wasn't it? St ANNE motors off & refers to notes without looking at BERLIN. Which hand was the flashlight in? St ANNE And the Walther was in your right? St ANNE You said you didn't check it? So how d'you know which gun you're holding? The chair moves back in and its pilot has an icicle up his ass. You said you figured it had fallen down the stairs with the flashlight? You said you were confused? You pick up the flashlight in confusion, how d'you know you didn't pick up the 25? St ANNE Games? St ANNE You told me you didn't know you'd lost it until you were in the hos- pital? So, if you didn't know till then, it coulda been either weapon? The dead smile and rubber in action. St ANNE changes his notes. St ANNE O.K. I'm corrected. I'm sorry, I made a mistake. St ANNE Sure. St ANNE Do you want a lawyer, Sergeant? St ANNE You don't? For the first time St ANNE moves his chair into BERLIN's space. St ANNE Where's the little gun, Sergeant? St ANNE You don't? St ANNE The man who shot Ross, used | What happens when Ross is killed with Berlin's gun? | Berlin is interrogated by FBI agent St. Anne. |
it could be that some crazy's stored her hand in a freezer, and only now decided to get rid of it? BERLIN is already looking. A last question as VENABLES leaves. Was it really frozen, Sergeant? A newspaper featuring a small photograph and article on Berlin. Holding the Finger he carefully inserts a hypodermic needle un- der the wire. Gently shoots in fluid to inflate the finger pad. The Finger pad is sufficiently restored to try and get a print. It wasn't our case, wasn't our coun- ty, and got nothing to do with that. The machine shunts up another slide. Now the back of the Hand. I count eleven scars on this hand, and four that might be? .. Now I count em on my hand? Five. I'm 42 years old. This girl's about 18? How come she's got so many scars? He walks out of the projection beam and neon light flutters on. So tell me about "Jennifer?" Reaches for a pack of cigarettes and perches on a nearby stool. You know I'm gonna find out. BERLIN counts out cigarettes. And destroys them in an ashtray. ROSS reaches for the paper & thumb-tacks it to the wall "That." A Zippo opens (sports L.A.P.D. insignia) and BERLIN lights up. He takes a punishing hit and exhales a lungful across the lab. Back on his feet BERLIN is about to begin more work on the Hand. Daftest thing Ross ever heard. BERLIN is poised to make a print. The house is a zoo of furniture. Bullshit piled up everywhere. By now she's got the apron off and her coat on. "C'mon, Bobby." And off they go via a slammed door as the phone starts to ring. BERLIN manages to find air to sit. Reaches for the Ansa Phone. First He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously turning in the lock. Hits the door and shouts. Hears footsteps moving rapidly away. Hellava wind that turns a key! But he says nothing. Takes the book while she gets into her coat. She's obviously made an ef- fort. A change of clothes and her hair pinned up. But she has got the sweater on inside out and the label is under her chin. By now they're at the doors with BERLIN escorting her through. HELENA sits frozen like she's waiting for results of an X-ray. I mean, we don't havta sit here waiting for me to ask the next question? You could ask one, too? And he likes what he's looking at. And maybe HELENA senses it. His attention is temporarily elsewhere. A Lunch Party just arr- ived. It's clear GOODRIDGE is profoundly unhappy to see BERLIN. Pulls into a parking spot and the next sound is the hand brake. I couldn't take another minute of Los Angeles .. Felt like I'd said sorry in every street in the city .. Time to go and both know it. Stale shadows and growing silence. Is it snowing now? And his eyes are searching her so hard she must be aware of it. You think you'd know this man? If he was in the room with you again? The silence is almost uncomfortable. BERLIN continues to stare. Amber's dead, isn't she? He almost does the whiskey but reaches for chewing gum instead. He thinks the kid shot the dog .. He looks at ROSS like what-are-you-looking-at-me-like-that-for? He didn't. SERATO walks in with a cigarette plugged into his ashen kisser. For a moment there is an intense trust between ROSS and BERLIN. Alright fuck it. Let's go for broke. BERLIN grabs the read out. Fueled on residual anger he vanishes out the it .. Implications are ganging up quicker than BERLIN can focus them. And you don't know where that little twenty-five calibre Walther's gone? BERLIN confirms it. Looking very concerned. The wheels retreat. St ANNE shakes out a cigarette and takes his time with matches. O.K. Sergeant, here it is. I intend to produce evidence, that will prove you shot Frederick Ross with malice afore- thought. My angle therefore, is to pre- pare a case on behalf of your Chief, to prosecute you for first degree murder. The photo of Ross again before his eyes sweep quickly on. Pict- ure of Amber Stone. Thumb tacks and maps and tape. Information relating to specific areas in San Diego. Carlsbad/Ocean Beach/ Point Loma. "Jennifer Seven" "Jennifer Eight." But who gives a fuck anymore? Two dead dogs on a refuse dump. And now the dead face of a Dummy. BERLIN stares till someone knocks on the door. St ANNE comes in smoking a cigarette and eating a ham sandwich. St ANNE You go home, John, get some sleep. I don't wanna talk any more today. St ANNE You know better than that ... He will exit when he stops speaking. Before he does he wanders the lab showing particular interest in the Dummy of Jennifer 8. I arrest you, you'll get bail, and be walking outta here anyway - and I'll have no one to talk to - Your Chief said he'd make you available to me. If you go to the store, call in, and let your duty officer know. St ANNE .. there was a gale that night .. all the doors are swinging .. so this door swings back and clips you .. and down you go .. within 35 seconds of uncon- sciousness, you're back on the fire es- cape, She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. | What happens after Berlin is arrested for Ross's death? | He is bailed out of jail by Margie, Ross's wife. |
She checks water temperature. Either too hot or too cold. Either way a tap goes on. Now she reaches behind her back. Unclips her bra. Gets hit with dazzling light. The Intruder is taking photographs. And if this is his turn-on he's in paradise. She stands in front of him in total oblivion. Her panties join clothes on the chair. Nov she's naked and now another picture. Again the bathroom detonates with white light. His face is concealed by the camera. But this bastard is about to run out of luck. Moves in as she silences the tap. Suddenly a lot of silence about. HELENA twists in panic. She just heard something? Didn't she just hear something? Is somebody in here? Fear kills her scream. She hits at the darkness. But he's gone. A question practically every expression in the place is asking. His indifference inflames BERLIN. Smashes the newspaper at him. Now the volume is going up. Now the whole department is silent. "Everyone" means ROSS. BERLIN looks at him. And his gaze hurts. His cigarette is already stubbed and he's already walking away. Why don't you get yourself a dict- ionary? Look up the word "witness?" A big mistake Mister Taylor. Mister Berlin suddenly turns into Harrison Ford. TAYLOR slams into filing cabinets right next to the Christmas tree. Gets BERLIN's forearm under his throat and fucking lucky not to get the knuckles in his gut. Both men are heaving. No volume necessary in this room of paralyzed silence. BERLIN moves away and the silence is brutal. Nothing happening but bad vibes. ROSS and BERLIN exchange glances, And this shit is really bad. BERLIN vanishes into his lab and the door slams. And as long as you like evaporates before ROSS can speak again. BERLIN is drinking whisky. room is revealed. Almost simultaneously fingers in black leather clasp her wrist. HELENA in speechless with shock. Both she and the INTRUDER are breathing hard. The only other sound is the wardrobe door whin- ing open again under its weight. Manifests a reflection of his back. Totally in black. Black wool hat. Leather jacket. Gloves. He backs her to the bed and sits her before releasing his grip. The frame remains static and staring into the mirror and still on the INTRUDER's back. HELENA stares unseeing at her own face. I was getting kinda concerned about you Jenny. Like, how blind are you? Blind as your friend? Or less blind? Coz she could see, you know. Had a view outta one of em. But you don't see nothing do you? Nothing at all? He reaches into his jeans and produces a stainless steel knife. Even closed this thing is 10 inches long. A leather loop attat- ched at one and. He teases the metal in front of HELENA's eyes. Can you see this, blind girl? Not a switch-blade but by snapping it like a whip it locks out. Gimme your hand. Too terrified to obey and her inability momentarily angers him. Gimme your fucken hand. HELENA lifts her hand and he takes it. He runs the edge of the blade over her palm. Then closes her fingers around the handle. You like it? She is paralyzed except for the tears spilling down her cheeks. I cut your friend's head off with that .. Words come out she can barely hear herself. "You are a coward." You say something, Jenny? <b> </b> In this terrible silence she hears a double hiss of an aerosol. I'd like to cut you. I'd like to cut you so bad .. realize how I can get so accurate with my timing? St ANNE backs off and carefully replaces the Sony on the table. Ross switched into channel 8, & we got a recording of the whole incident. I was gonna play it to you, but I got a meeting, we'll have to do it after lunch. It's one, let's make it back by three? Hardly a sound except her own voice. "John? Is that you?" Just the rattle of local Crows and a Bull heaving somewhere in some distant field. "John?" She cautiously descends wood stairs and walks two or three paces before bumping into a brown Chevrolet. Exploration of the car establishes nil. More confused than con- cerned she listens. Country sound and not a sound out of place Then suddenly she is alert. Something clatters somewhere. Like cans kicked in the garage? Was it the garage? "John, is it you?" She returns to the living room. Curtains drawn and almost dark. The endless silence is interrupted by a rush of water in pipes. If anybody's here they're upstairs? HELENA moves to the bottom of them "John, are you up there? It's me, darling. I got a cab." The only reply is more silence. She begins to climb the stairs. One hand on the wall. She ascends slowly. Her helplessness giv- ing way to suspicion with each new step. At the top she pushes into the bedroom "John, are you here? Darling? Are you alright?" Apparently no one is here. Certainly no one in the bed. And no one in the bathroom. She reappears with an expression suppress- ing anxiety. Feels her way past an antique wardrobe. Curiously its door is open. A full length mirror inside. Shuts it as she passes and for a split-instant the Man in the He gets up, and between half past two and a quarter of three, he makes a search - with a flashlight - of the top 3 floors. Finds nothing untoward, & goes back to his apartment in the roof. BERLIN looks grey as sick. Knows what's coming. And here it is. The flashlight you saw, was his. The "footsteps" you heard, were his. The elevator you were chasing up and down after was empty, and is prone to such activity, due to an electrical fault .. Apparently it happens frequently dur- ing gales. The gale that was swinging the door. That knocked you down. That confused you so much? And here we are, back to where I'm sitting. You wanna tell me what really went on that night? It seems St ANNE has effectively destroyed the "Serial Killer" scenario. Stubs his cigarette and waits for BERLIN's response. St ANNE What man? St ANNE is winning. And they both know it. And he almost grins. We just dealt with "the man?" If St ANNE can raise an eyebrow he does. By implication BERLIN is ditching his "Killer." During this St ANNE rewinds his Sony. You're telling me it's his flashlight I saw, O.K., he sees my flashlight? And I'm coming up the stairs with a Beretta in my hand. And he's frightened. He hits the door on me. Picks up my gun. He's running. He runs into Ross, and in panic, he shoots him. The little Sony snaps to a stop and St ANNE looks at his watch. St ANNE Not unless he had a gun in one hand, and a phone in the other, he didn't. Ross was shot at ex- actly two fifty-seven a.m. The janitor put a call through to the local police, at 2:57 a.m. You obviously and you're confused, really con- fused .. you don't know if Tuesdays come in two's or happen once a week .. Bit of a cold coming on and near enough for BERLIN to catch it. You see a figure coming up the stairs. Ross ain't meant to be on the stairs? He challenges you .. and this ain't a piece of wood with a nail through it .. this guy's got a 12 gauge Winchester up your nose .. and he's drunk .. and you're dizzy .. and your eye's fulla blood .. you ain't thinking good, and you're seeing worse .. Wow! .. it just went off! .. You just put him down? .. and you get hit by a Glaser, you stay down .. But he ain't dead .. Now, you realize you shot your partner .. "Oh, Suzanna, how do I get outta this?" I know .. The "Serial Killer" shot him .. And here comes the malice, John .. 17 seconds later, you put another one in his throat .. Isn't that what happened? St ANNE Tell us what happened, then? St ANNE Tell me the truth again. The silence is almost total. But something disturbs it. HELENA looks around. Back on her feet she tries to discover source of the sound. Finally arrives at a table lamp. She feels the bulb and it's hot. A large moth beats itself crazy inside the shade. Reaches in and turns it off & the house is in virtual darkness. St ANNE You have? .. How about the booze? .. How does St ANNE know? Perhaps he doesn't? Sounds like he does. Too much booze can be very dangerous .. memory black outs .. stuff like that .. His attention still with notes like a quack about to prescribe. | Who does the killer chase through the Insitute? | He chases Margie, who shoots him dead and closes the case. |
Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. Copyright 2004 All Rights Reserved Some of the PEDESTRIANS drift into "UNIONTOWN PARK", milling around a GAZEBO, where THREE "MUSICIANS" are struggling with a trombone, a saxophone, and a tambourine. They can't seem to make the instruments work, except for the tambourine player, who is rattling out a few very unrhythmic beats. That's where that sound is coming from. TCHICK! KA-TCHICK-TCHICKY-TCHICK. A CLOSER INSPECTION REVEALS: The "MUSICIANS" are DEAD. So are the "PEDESTRIANS". Flesh is rotting off their bones. The town itself, which at first looked so perfect, is ROTTING TOO. DEAD TEENAGE COUPLE walks hand-in-hand near the gas pumps of a defunct TEXACO STATION. The boy steps on the little hose that BINGS when a car pulls in. Out of the building comes... ...CHOLO DeMORA, a Latino in his 20s, handsome, roguish, and confident...a bit too confident. He reaches over his shoulder and unstraps a CROSSBOW. As the men tip the crate onto a dolly, MAGGOTS are revealed RILEY and MIKE watch THREE DEAD THINGS lumber toward them Mike stands, turns, and... ...is GRABBED from behind by a ZOMBIE! It's not one of the three they've been watching. This one wears the remains of a CLOWN SUIT. Half its bulbous red nose has been eaten away. Painted eyelashes make its stare alarming. Its ORANGE HAIR is crawling with SPIDERS. It wrestles Mike to the ground. Opens its lipsticked mouth. Is about to bite Mike's neck when... ...Riley FIRES his .45. BLAM! A bullet SHATTERS the Clown's SHOULDER CAP. The dead thing is pitched backward, but seems to feel no pain. It hunkers over Mike again. RILEY and MIKE step into a tight, uncomfortable space. Riley turns. Sees the thing. And, surprisingly, he relaxes, recognizing CHARLIE HOUK, a heavily-armed guerilla whose intellect is as burned as his face. Riley and FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. | The main city in the story is bordered by what? | Two rivers and an electric fence. |
FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. shirt, and SLAMS him against the wall. holo shrugs out of Riley's grasp. Behind them, the guerillas continue to unload cargo. Cholo looks up at the TV monitor. Riley follows his gaze, seeing well-dressed PEOPLE sipping cocktails in a club room. The image on the TV MONITOR changes to an overhead view of the city and its rivers. Animation draws a RED LINE along the base of the "golden triangle", a zone known as "THE THROAT". A WALKER lumbers in and touches the fencing. SPARKS FLY! The Thing's flesh is literally COOKED! BOILS develop, POPPING OPEN, emitting SMOKE. Still the Thing remains animated. UDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA! The Military Woman FIRES. The Thing is decimated. Its body hangs, welded to the SPARKING barbs. The Guard takes Cholo's weapons and returns a claim check. CHOLO collects his boxes and steps onto an escalator that carries him up into an ENORMOUS ATRIUM. The "mall" we saw on TV. SUNLIGHT splashes through glass walls onto box-planted trees. Caged birds CHIRP seemingly in tune with the Chopin that lilts over a sound system. SHOPPERS, expensively over- dressed, stroll past stores. OTHER RESIDENTS lunch at "outdoor" cafes. Cholo pulls out a kerchief and wipes the smudges off his face, trying to make himself presentable. RILEY and CHARLIE cross a manicured plaza to a CHECKPOINT iley is welcomed by nearly everyone he passes, greeting them in return with a smile and a nod, handing some bills to a FATHER with a YOUNG SON, patting an OLD MAN on the back. Charlie follows Riley, who strides into... ...an alley, surprised to find a cadre of rough-looking REVOLUTIONARIES, led by MULLIGAN, a defiant man who stands on a soapbox. A small audience is gathered in front of him. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey. Riley stands there, grim-faced. | Why did Cholo DeMora initially want to retaliate against Kaufman? | He was denied an apartment in Fiddler's Green even though he served Kaufman. |
Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. shirt, and SLAMS him against the wall. holo shrugs out of Riley's grasp. Behind them, the guerillas continue to unload cargo. Cholo looks up at the TV monitor. Riley follows his gaze, seeing well-dressed PEOPLE sipping cocktails in a club room. The image on the TV MONITOR changes to an overhead view of the city and its rivers. Animation draws a RED LINE along the base of the "golden triangle", a zone known as "THE THROAT". A WALKER lumbers in and touches the fencing. SPARKS FLY! The Thing's flesh is literally COOKED! BOILS develop, POPPING OPEN, emitting SMOKE. Still the Thing remains animated. UDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA! The Military Woman FIRES. The Thing is decimated. Its body hangs, welded to the SPARKING barbs. The Guard takes Cholo's weapons and returns a claim check. CHOLO collects his boxes and steps onto an escalator that carries him up into an ENORMOUS ATRIUM. The "mall" we saw on TV. SUNLIGHT splashes through glass walls onto box-planted trees. Caged birds CHIRP seemingly in tune with the Chopin that lilts over a sound system. SHOPPERS, expensively over- dressed, stroll past stores. OTHER RESIDENTS lunch at "outdoor" cafes. Cholo pulls out a kerchief and wipes the smudges off his face, trying to make himself presentable. RILEY and CHARLIE cross a manicured plaza to a CHECKPOINT iley is welcomed by nearly everyone he passes, greeting them in return with a smile and a nod, handing some bills to a FATHER with a YOUNG SON, patting an OLD MAN on the back. Charlie follows Riley, who strides into... ...an alley, surprised to find a cadre of rough-looking REVOLUTIONARIES, led by MULLIGAN, a defiant man who stands on a soapbox. A small audience is gathered in front of him. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey. Riley stands there, grim-faced. FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. | Why did Riley and Charlie kill Chihuahua? | To save a hooker named Slack. |
Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. shirt, and SLAMS him against the wall. holo shrugs out of Riley's grasp. Behind them, the guerillas continue to unload cargo. Cholo looks up at the TV monitor. Riley follows his gaze, seeing well-dressed PEOPLE sipping cocktails in a club room. The image on the TV MONITOR changes to an overhead view of the city and its rivers. Animation draws a RED LINE along the base of the "golden triangle", a zone known as "THE THROAT". A WALKER lumbers in and touches the fencing. SPARKS FLY! The Thing's flesh is literally COOKED! BOILS develop, POPPING OPEN, emitting SMOKE. Still the Thing remains animated. UDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA! The Military Woman FIRES. The Thing is decimated. Its body hangs, welded to the SPARKING barbs. The Guard takes Cholo's weapons and returns a claim check. CHOLO collects his boxes and steps onto an escalator that carries him up into an ENORMOUS ATRIUM. The "mall" we saw on TV. SUNLIGHT splashes through glass walls onto box-planted trees. Caged birds CHIRP seemingly in tune with the Chopin that lilts over a sound system. SHOPPERS, expensively over- dressed, stroll past stores. OTHER RESIDENTS lunch at "outdoor" cafes. Cholo pulls out a kerchief and wipes the smudges off his face, trying to make himself presentable. RILEY and CHARLIE cross a manicured plaza to a CHECKPOINT iley is welcomed by nearly everyone he passes, greeting them in return with a smile and a nod, handing some bills to a FATHER with a YOUNG SON, patting an OLD MAN on the back. Charlie follows Riley, who strides into... ...an alley, surprised to find a cadre of rough-looking REVOLUTIONARIES, led by MULLIGAN, a defiant man who stands on a soapbox. A small audience is gathered in front of him. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey. Riley stands there, grim-faced. | How did most of the poor eventually survive the zombie assault? | Mulligan led them to safety. |
a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. shirt, and SLAMS him against the wall. holo shrugs out of Riley's grasp. Behind them, the guerillas continue to unload cargo. Cholo looks up at the TV monitor. Riley follows his gaze, seeing well-dressed PEOPLE sipping cocktails in a club room. The image on the TV MONITOR changes to an overhead view of the city and its rivers. Animation draws a RED LINE along the base of the "golden triangle", a zone known as "THE THROAT". A WALKER lumbers in and touches the fencing. SPARKS FLY! The Thing's flesh is literally COOKED! BOILS develop, POPPING OPEN, emitting SMOKE. Still the Thing remains animated. UDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA! The Military Woman FIRES. The Thing is decimated. Its body hangs, welded to the SPARKING barbs. The Guard takes Cholo's weapons and returns a claim check. CHOLO collects his boxes and steps onto an escalator that carries him up into an ENORMOUS ATRIUM. The "mall" we saw on TV. SUNLIGHT splashes through glass walls onto box-planted trees. Caged birds CHIRP seemingly in tune with the Chopin that lilts over a sound system. SHOPPERS, expensively over- dressed, stroll past stores. OTHER RESIDENTS lunch at "outdoor" cafes. Cholo pulls out a kerchief and wipes the smudges off his face, trying to make himself presentable. RILEY and CHARLIE cross a manicured plaza to a CHECKPOINT iley is welcomed by nearly everyone he passes, greeting them in return with a smile and a nod, handing some bills to a FATHER with a YOUNG SON, patting an OLD MAN on the back. Charlie follows Riley, who strides into... ...an alley, surprised to find a cadre of rough-looking REVOLUTIONARIES, led by MULLIGAN, a defiant man who stands on a soapbox. A small audience is gathered in front of him. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey. Riley stands there, grim-faced. | What was sponsored by Paul Kaufman sponsored and could travel through zombie-infested areas? | The vehicle Dead Reckoning |
Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. shirt, and SLAMS him against the wall. holo shrugs out of Riley's grasp. Behind them, the guerillas continue to unload cargo. Cholo looks up at the TV monitor. Riley follows his gaze, seeing well-dressed PEOPLE sipping cocktails in a club room. The image on the TV MONITOR changes to an overhead view of the city and its rivers. Animation draws a RED LINE along the base of the "golden triangle", a zone known as "THE THROAT". A WALKER lumbers in and touches the fencing. SPARKS FLY! The Thing's flesh is literally COOKED! BOILS develop, POPPING OPEN, emitting SMOKE. Still the Thing remains animated. UDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA! The Military Woman FIRES. The Thing is decimated. Its body hangs, welded to the SPARKING barbs. The Guard takes Cholo's weapons and returns a claim check. CHOLO collects his boxes and steps onto an escalator that carries him up into an ENORMOUS ATRIUM. The "mall" we saw on TV. SUNLIGHT splashes through glass walls onto box-planted trees. Caged birds CHIRP seemingly in tune with the Chopin that lilts over a sound system. SHOPPERS, expensively over- dressed, stroll past stores. OTHER RESIDENTS lunch at "outdoor" cafes. Cholo pulls out a kerchief and wipes the smudges off his face, trying to make himself presentable. RILEY and CHARLIE cross a manicured plaza to a CHECKPOINT iley is welcomed by nearly everyone he passes, greeting them in return with a smile and a nod, handing some bills to a FATHER with a YOUNG SON, patting an OLD MAN on the back. Charlie follows Riley, who strides into... ...an alley, surprised to find a cadre of rough-looking REVOLUTIONARIES, led by MULLIGAN, a defiant man who stands on a soapbox. A small audience is gathered in front of him. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey. Riley stands there, grim-faced. | What event caused Cholo to separate from Foxy en route to kill Kaufman? | Cholo was bitten by a zombie. |
Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. shirt, and SLAMS him against the wall. holo shrugs out of Riley's grasp. Behind them, the guerillas continue to unload cargo. Cholo looks up at the TV monitor. Riley follows his gaze, seeing well-dressed PEOPLE sipping cocktails in a club room. The image on the TV MONITOR changes to an overhead view of the city and its rivers. Animation draws a RED LINE along the base of the "golden triangle", a zone known as "THE THROAT". A WALKER lumbers in and touches the fencing. SPARKS FLY! The Thing's flesh is literally COOKED! BOILS develop, POPPING OPEN, emitting SMOKE. Still the Thing remains animated. UDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA! The Military Woman FIRES. The Thing is decimated. Its body hangs, welded to the SPARKING barbs. The Guard takes Cholo's weapons and returns a claim check. CHOLO collects his boxes and steps onto an escalator that carries him up into an ENORMOUS ATRIUM. The "mall" we saw on TV. SUNLIGHT splashes through glass walls onto box-planted trees. Caged birds CHIRP seemingly in tune with the Chopin that lilts over a sound system. SHOPPERS, expensively over- dressed, stroll past stores. OTHER RESIDENTS lunch at "outdoor" cafes. Cholo pulls out a kerchief and wipes the smudges off his face, trying to make himself presentable. RILEY and CHARLIE cross a manicured plaza to a CHECKPOINT iley is welcomed by nearly everyone he passes, greeting them in return with a smile and a nod, handing some bills to a FATHER with a YOUNG SON, patting an OLD MAN on the back. Charlie follows Riley, who strides into... ...an alley, surprised to find a cadre of rough-looking REVOLUTIONARIES, led by MULLIGAN, a defiant man who stands on a soapbox. A small audience is gathered in front of him. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey. Riley stands there, grim-faced. CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. | What led Riley to mercy kill the poor people with missiles? | Zombies had crossed over a the drawn bridge. |
Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. shirt, and SLAMS him against the wall. holo shrugs out of Riley's grasp. Behind them, the guerillas continue to unload cargo. Cholo looks up at the TV monitor. Riley follows his gaze, seeing well-dressed PEOPLE sipping cocktails in a club room. The image on the TV MONITOR changes to an overhead view of the city and its rivers. Animation draws a RED LINE along the base of the "golden triangle", a zone known as "THE THROAT". A WALKER lumbers in and touches the fencing. SPARKS FLY! The Thing's flesh is literally COOKED! BOILS develop, POPPING OPEN, emitting SMOKE. Still the Thing remains animated. UDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA! The Military Woman FIRES. The Thing is decimated. Its body hangs, welded to the SPARKING barbs. The Guard takes Cholo's weapons and returns a claim check. CHOLO collects his boxes and steps onto an escalator that carries him up into an ENORMOUS ATRIUM. The "mall" we saw on TV. SUNLIGHT splashes through glass walls onto box-planted trees. Caged birds CHIRP seemingly in tune with the Chopin that lilts over a sound system. SHOPPERS, expensively over- dressed, stroll past stores. OTHER RESIDENTS lunch at "outdoor" cafes. Cholo pulls out a kerchief and wipes the smudges off his face, trying to make himself presentable. RILEY and CHARLIE cross a manicured plaza to a CHECKPOINT iley is welcomed by nearly everyone he passes, greeting them in return with a smile and a nod, handing some bills to a FATHER with a YOUNG SON, patting an OLD MAN on the back. Charlie follows Riley, who strides into... ...an alley, surprised to find a cadre of rough-looking REVOLUTIONARIES, led by MULLIGAN, a defiant man who stands on a soapbox. A small audience is gathered in front of him. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey. Riley stands there, grim-faced. | Who did Kaufman order to be executed for helping Mulligan instigate rebellion among the poor? | Slack, the hooker. |
Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. shirt, and SLAMS him against the wall. holo shrugs out of Riley's grasp. Behind them, the guerillas continue to unload cargo. Cholo looks up at the TV monitor. Riley follows his gaze, seeing well-dressed PEOPLE sipping cocktails in a club room. The image on the TV MONITOR changes to an overhead view of the city and its rivers. Animation draws a RED LINE along the base of the "golden triangle", a zone known as "THE THROAT". A WALKER lumbers in and touches the fencing. SPARKS FLY! The Thing's flesh is literally COOKED! BOILS develop, POPPING OPEN, emitting SMOKE. Still the Thing remains animated. UDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA! The Military Woman FIRES. The Thing is decimated. Its body hangs, welded to the SPARKING barbs. The Guard takes Cholo's weapons and returns a claim check. CHOLO collects his boxes and steps onto an escalator that carries him up into an ENORMOUS ATRIUM. The "mall" we saw on TV. SUNLIGHT splashes through glass walls onto box-planted trees. Caged birds CHIRP seemingly in tune with the Chopin that lilts over a sound system. SHOPPERS, expensively over- dressed, stroll past stores. OTHER RESIDENTS lunch at "outdoor" cafes. Cholo pulls out a kerchief and wipes the smudges off his face, trying to make himself presentable. RILEY and CHARLIE cross a manicured plaza to a CHECKPOINT iley is welcomed by nearly everyone he passes, greeting them in return with a smile and a nod, handing some bills to a FATHER with a YOUNG SON, patting an OLD MAN on the back. Charlie follows Riley, who strides into... ...an alley, surprised to find a cadre of rough-looking REVOLUTIONARIES, led by MULLIGAN, a defiant man who stands on a soapbox. A small audience is gathered in front of him. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey. Riley stands there, grim-faced. FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. | In what way did Big Daddy believe the zombies could reach the human city? | By walking or crossing safely underwater. |
Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. Copyright 2004 All Rights Reserved Some of the PEDESTRIANS drift into "UNIONTOWN PARK", milling around a GAZEBO, where THREE "MUSICIANS" are struggling with a trombone, a saxophone, and a tambourine. They can't seem to make the instruments work, except for the tambourine player, who is rattling out a few very unrhythmic beats. That's where that sound is coming from. TCHICK! KA-TCHICK-TCHICKY-TCHICK. A CLOSER INSPECTION REVEALS: The "MUSICIANS" are DEAD. So are the "PEDESTRIANS". Flesh is rotting off their bones. The town itself, which at first looked so perfect, is ROTTING TOO. DEAD TEENAGE COUPLE walks hand-in-hand near the gas pumps of a defunct TEXACO STATION. The boy steps on the little hose that BINGS when a car pulls in. Out of the building comes... ...CHOLO DeMORA, a Latino in his 20s, handsome, roguish, and confident...a bit too confident. He reaches over his shoulder and unstraps a CROSSBOW. As the men tip the crate onto a dolly, MAGGOTS are revealed RILEY and MIKE watch THREE DEAD THINGS lumber toward them Mike stands, turns, and... ...is GRABBED from behind by a ZOMBIE! It's not one of the three they've been watching. This one wears the remains of a CLOWN SUIT. Half its bulbous red nose has been eaten away. Painted eyelashes make its stare alarming. Its ORANGE HAIR is crawling with SPIDERS. It wrestles Mike to the ground. Opens its lipsticked mouth. Is about to bite Mike's neck when... ...Riley FIRES his .45. BLAM! A bullet SHATTERS the Clown's SHOULDER CAP. The dead thing is pitched backward, but seems to feel no pain. It hunkers over Mike again. RILEY and MIKE step into a tight, uncomfortable space. Riley turns. Sees the thing. And, surprisingly, he relaxes, recognizing CHARLIE HOUK, a heavily-armed guerilla whose intellect is as burned as his face. Riley and CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. | Why does Cholo hold Riley and Charlie at gunpoint? | realized Riley is working with Kaufman |
a wall, club him, and drag him away. RILEY instinctively reaches through the window's bars, but there's nothing he can do. It's a helpless feeling. BLAM! BLAM! Bullets hit it in the face and neck. GUS, a young soldier, and his partner BARRETT, are shooting outside the SALES OFFICE of the car-lot-turned-depot. A sign is printed on the window. "BEST DEALS IN TOWN AND THAT'S NO BALONEY!" Cholo reaches down, but not into his pocket. For his gun. Just before he draws it...SHOTS ring out. GUS aims his rifle at the jerking head of TONY BALONEY. As he is about to fire, there's a SOUND at his back. The SOUND comes again. From the woods that adjoin the lot. Barrett grabs the handles of a KLIEG LIGHT mounted on a pivot and swings it so that it ILLUMINATES the tree-line. Barrett pivots the Klieg light back to its original position, jumping out of his skin when the bright white beam reveals... A DEAD THING within arm's length. Barrett FIRES! The dead thing DROPS OUT OF FRAME, REPLACED BY ANOTHER. BLAM! Barrett SHOOTS again. This creature collapses. It is also replaced by another, which is also shot, as... BLAM! The top of Barrett's head is taken off by a rifle shot. The rifle was fired by BIG DADDY. The barrel is still smoking. In the darkness behind him stands NUMBER NINE. Behind Number Nine are the SHUFFLING SHADOWS of many more dead things. HOLO and his team sprint across the lot to DEAD RECKONING. CHOLO and his TEAM scramble into the vehicle. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING pulls out. Rumbling over the section of fencing the zombies pushed down, it drives into the night. SOLDIERS abandon their stations and scatter, shooting wildly. NUMBER NINE knocks one of them cold with its baseball bat. CUT OFF at the wrist by a meat clever held by THE BUTCHER. The Soldier's hand, still clutching the grenade, Big Daddy continues to walk toward the building, carrying the pneumatic hammer, as OTHER DEAD THINGS collect sledges, pickaxes, lengths of pipe, and follow their leader. A bank of GLASS DOORS leading to the street is under assault by WALKERS, ten deep. Kaufman FIRES THREE ROUNDS at the men! He's not a marksman, but ONE of the GUARDS is WINGED. Whirls around and levels his M-16 at Kaufman. He's about to fire when Knipp steps in front of Kaufman. The Guard takes off after his comrades. Kaufman spins around to see CHOLO walking toward him across the atrium. LANG! CLANG! CLANG! The Dead Things at the glass doors are POUNDING now with shovels, pickaxes, and lengths of pipe. Kaufman raises his gun and aims at Cholo, who aims back with his crossbow. BIG DADDY appears outside the doors. Uses his pneumatic hammer to POUND at the safety glass. aufman can't take it anymore. He bolts for a stairway door. Cholo shoots. An arrows hits Kaufman in the back of his left calf. Kaufman sprawls, dropping both his bag of money and his gun, which skitters Kaway. Knipp rushes over to help Kaufman. CRUNCH! The chisel on Big Daddy's pneumatic hammer is the first tool to PENETRATE the doors. The glass doesn't shatter; it COBWEBS into tiny crystals stuck together by a thin plasticine coating. ALARM BELLS SOUND! Puzzled by the sudden transformation of the glass into something that looks different, Big Daddy drops the pneumatic hammer and reaches out. The glass is different. It's soft. Flexible. Big Daddy POKES HIS HAND right through. Kaufman has almost reached his gun. Cholo shoots another arrow. This one hits Kaufman in the shoulder. Cholo stands transfixed for an instant. And in that instant... ...HE IS GRABBED FROM BEHIND! He whirls, ready to kill, but finds only a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN, 60-something, wearing a tailored suit and expensive jewelry, her perfectness blemished only by her hysteria. She resumes her SCREAMING. In the kitchen, the Young Man is slicing through the rope when his DEAD FATHER'S EYES POP OPEN! The Young Man is too The entire apartment is PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The woman ...the back door of the apartment BURSTS OPEN and a SECURITY GUARD lunges into the kitchen, rifle in hand. THE HANGED MAN appears without warning, attacking one of the Cholo kills the bitten security guard, too. Cholo turns the gun on the surviving security guard. iley strides toward a cluster of BETTORS. A very tall man iley grabs him and spins him around. he man's feet are off the ground. Way off the ground. Far from tall, he's a little person, who has been standing on a platform, wearing a purple satin pimp-suit. He's a Latino, who looks like a Chihuahua. And that's his name. CHIHUAHUA. RILEY and CHARLIE drift into a large room that's packed with BETTORS hooting and hollering like football fans. They're all jammed onto tiered wooden viewing stands arranged around an IRON-MESH STRUCTURE that looks like a lion-tamer's cage. Gates open. THE PAINTED WALKERS are thrust inside the cage. Their nooses are released. The gates are locked behind them. lack follows suit, staining its fingers red. Black licks its hand, spitting when it identifies not blood, but something distasteful. BOOKIES drift among the spectators, taking bets with fists full of cash. ..A WOMAN! Alive, badly bruised, her dress in tatters. Despite tarnish, she still looks sexy. Last night she was a The gate SLAMS shut. The Dead Things walk FIREBALL removes everything from sight, except a few floating HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS, burning in mid-air. HROUGH LICKS OF FLAME we see...Big Daddy is almost smiling. Riley leaps down. The instant he's clear... n the dissipating SMOKE, RILEY is the first one through the opening. Within seconds, CITIZENS start toward it, heading the other way. Riley finds himself running against the tide. Searching. Desperately searching. Behind the surging crowd... ...WALKERS appear, grabbing people. Dropping them to the ground. Eating them. iley FIRES in all directions. WALKERS DROP around him. He saves a WOMAN with a BABY...a YOUNG COUPLE...a PRIEST. CLICK. He runs out of ammo. WALKERS close in. The situation seems hopeless until... CHARLIE hits a button on the console. HE DEAD THINGS gaze upward, mesmerized. Riley moves toward her... ...she to him... ...both of them weaving a cautious path between the statues. They reach each other and embrace, surrounded by dead things that don't even know they are there. RATATATATATAT. GUNFIRE EXPLODES around them! HAPLESS DEAD THINGS are MOWED DOWN the way they were back in Uniontown. This time by... ...MULLIGAN and his REVOLUTIONARIES...who slaughter every zombie in the area. BRIAN is shooting, too, raring to go. When it's all over... FIREWORKS EXPLODE. A ZOMBIE looks up toward the "blooms". A One of the GATTLING GUNS RATCHETS into position, taking aim DEAD RECKONING rolls into the future, too, but in a different direction. ANCHOR, SCAR, and PILLSBURY all shrug. Riley looks at Slack. ...shooting off FIREWORKS worthy of Independence Day. Kaufman has a will of iron. He keeps going, gritting his teeth against the pain, reaching out for his gun, as... aufman looks at his worst nightmare...Dead Things ripping their way through the cobwebbed doors, invading his temple. The commotion distracts Cholo just long enough for Kaufman to lift his gun and FIRE nine rounds. ost of the shots miss. TWO hit Cholo, one in the belly, one in the heart. He is slammed against the wall, his glazing eyes staring up into the atrium, the place he so desired. It's the last thing he sees before he keels over, dead. Knipp pulls Kaufman onto his feet. They look up to see... BIG DADDY leading his army into the atrium. Kaufman aims and FIRES. A BULLET HITS BIG DADDY in the upper chest, blowing DEAD FLESH out of his back. The Dead Man feels no pain, but it focuses on Kaufman and starts after him with purpose. Kaufman sees something in Big Daddy's eyes. Something that's not dead. Kaufman fires again. CLICK! He's out of ammo. Knipp pulls Kaufman to a stairway door. They rush inside. The moment they're out of sight, the Walkers forget about them, moving on into the atrium. All except Big Daddy. That rage is still in its face as he lumbers toward the stairway door. TH-BOOOOM! The roadbed of the drawbridge drops into place. VROOOM! DEAD RECKONING rumbles across the span. ...the "THROAT", where much of the CITY'S POPULATION is trapped, herded by HUNDREDS OF WALKING DEAD against the layers of electrified fencing that were erected to protect them. There's no escape. People are being TORN apart and EATEN. The fencing SPARKS as bodies touch it and are ELECTROCUTED. Terrible SCREAMS fill the air. Riley hears the distinctive ROAR of DEAD RECKONING'S engines, the CLATTER | Who sponsored dead reckoning? | Paul kaufman, the ruthless ruler |
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