Chronometree Review

According to Glass Hammer's official web site their new album, Chronometree (May 1, 2000), is an affectionate spoof of 70s Progressive Rock. This should be immediately evident to anyone who grew up in and absorbed the atmosphere of the 70's (to say nothing of older and wiser souls) even if, like mine, their understanding of Progressive Rock trends of the day was all but nil. There's a feeling in this album that even I recognize as not just familiar, but comfortable, as if a part of myself were externalized and crystallized in the music. The first listen felt like coming home; though, with a half rueful, half selfdepricating smile.

This is not surprising, since Fred Schendel, whose project the album principally is, is some two months younger than myself, having been born in March 1964. As isolated as my disabilities made me during my growing up years, clearly I absorbed the essentials of the same world Fred grew up in.

The melodies, the arrangements, and the production/presentation of this album are all superb, the lyrical sections blending seamlessly with the louder, more turbulent sections, the whole presentation creating and sustaining a dreamlike atmosphere. Only the self-consciously mannered musical and vocal presentations and the slightly silly lyrics give away that Chronometree is a takeoff.

An Eldrich Wind, my favorite track, illustrates the point very well. The song has a beautiful, haunting melody supported by a sensitive, almost minimalist arrangement which relies heavily on the guitar. Meditative, sweetly melancholy, the song leads you into that state where memory and dream, past, present and future become one and your heart is open, yearning for what is beyond.

Or, it would, if you didn't pay too much attention to the lyrics and the way they're presented. apparently mesmerized by watching his record (or more probably the label on the record) spin, Tom, the hapless hero of the album's storyline, falls into a trance like state in which he believes that voices from beyond this world are speaking to him through the music, calling him to a higher reality in other worlds. That is, he has a mystical experience. But, though it seems very rich and wonderful to him, it seems just a touch inauthentic and laughable to the outside observer, the listener, though I can't help also feeling just a bit sorry for Tom.

His mystical experience would seem, if his slurred speech and insistently earnest manner are anything to go by, to be made up of a Pot high, loneliness, and a desperate longing to belong somewhere and to have something of his own to cherish. Probably all of us, including those who have never tried Pot, can relate to this state of mind. And we smile in our greater experience and wisdom, knowing that he has been called to nothing beyond a nap.

Perhaps younger listeners miss this obvious though gentle point. And, though this knowledge adds a dimension of fun to the album, I suppose it is not strictly necessary for enjoyment. However, to state the obvious, Chronometree is a progressive rock album about listening to progressive rock.

It's also about the dangers of taking any art form too seriously, and of taking oneself too seriously. To Tom, Chronometree reveals itself as the revolutionary new science of time. But, in the end, it reveals itself as nothing more nor less than the science of wasting time. Tom is a sort of cross between Don Quixote and Linus Van pelt waiting for a Great Pumpkin who never arrives.

Whether regarded as spoof or straight Prog this, Glass Hammer's latest effort, displays their talent to great advantage. I'm a great fan of Fred's and so, wile enjoying his keyboard wizardry, I was disappointed that he seems to have no vocal presence at all on the album. However, Brad Marler's vocal work, if not a sufficient substitute in the view of the Fred-smitten, is certainly up to GH's usual standard of excellence.

The increased prominence of guitars, besides fitting well with the album's theme, builds on work familiar to GH fans from Journey of the Dunadan, Perelandra, and On to Evermore. The orchestral passages, too, indeed the album as a whole, seem familiar and yet delightfully new as GH continues to grow and develop, as any dynamic organism will. Chronometreeis a worthy successor to the band's previous discs, crowning earlier accomplishments, while foreshadowing future triumphs.

'I Am Not in the Entertainment Business' and Other Rules of MacNeil/Lehrer Journalism

This is how it's done, boys and girls. It's called being a class act. It's also called integrity.

Signing off of Friday's broadcast, Jim Lehrer outlined the journalistic mindset that has driven the program for 34 years and will continue to guide it when its fifth iteration relaunches Monday as the PBS NewsHour:

JIM LEHRER: People often ask me if there are guidelines in our practice of what I like to call MacNeil/Lehrer journalism. Well, yes, there are. And here they are:

* Do nothing I cannot defend.

* Cover, write and present every story with the care I would want if the story were about me.

* Assume there is at least one other side or version to every story.

* Assume the viewer is as smart and as caring and as good a person as I am.

* Assume the same about all people on whom I report.

* Assume personal lives are a private matter, until a legitimate turn in the story absolutely mandates otherwise.

* Carefully separate opinion and analysis from straight news stories, and clearly label everything.

* Do not use anonymous sources or blind quotes, except on rare and monumental occasions.

* No one should ever be allowed to attack another anonymously.

* And, finally, I am not in the entertainment business.

Here is how I closed a speech about our changes to our PBS stations family last spring:

"We really are the fortunate ones in the current tumultuous world of journalism right now. When we wake up in the morning, we only have to decide what the news is and how we are going to cover it. We never have to decide who we are and why we are there."

That is the way it has been for these nearly 35 years. And that's the way it will be forever. And for the NewsHour, there will always be a forever.

A Little Sunshine

This lovely picture was taken by our very own listener.

One Hundred years of Johnny Nercer

Johnny Mercer (1909-1976) songwriter, singer, entrepreneur and, for my money, genius.

Here he is in his role as singer in a duet with Margaret Whiting.



And here's Andy Williams singing Mercer and Mancini's "The Days of Wine and Roses."

Happy Birthday, Gov. Dean!

It's our favorite person's birthday.

Many happy returns of the day, Howard!

That Time of Year

That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self that seals up all in rest.

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 73

The Mule and the Writer

Sometimes the world takes its pruning sheers and cuts you right back down to the roots. According to Roger, the gardening expert on Ask This Old House, such drastic action may be necessary to help, or force, a plant to grow properly. I never much liked the idea. Poor plant, ouch! Well, this week the plant is me, and the pruning process feels like being kicked in the gut by a mule.

I've spent the better, or worse, part of ten years as well as many hundreds of dollars on books and classes and domain name registration, beating my brains raw learning HTML, and later XHTML, and CSS and practically memorizing the W3C's web accessibility guidelines. All this fuss and bother had only one purpose; namely, to create the best possible web site to serve as a showcase for my writing. Even once I finally gave up on the web site as too difficult to maintain, I applied my CSS skills to customizing the Blogger blog spots where I proudly posted my fiction and poetry.

Ignorance truly is bliss.

Someone who has perhaps not been writing as long as I have but who is more savvy told me yesterday evening a fact which I had somehow failed to divine for all these years. If a story or poem is freely accessible on the Web, a professional editor won't buy it.

That was the mule kick.

Stunned and reeling, I checked with a very successful writer I know via his blog. He confirmed and gave a reasonable explanation for the policy.

I see the sense of it now. But, that doesn't ease the pain in my gut. I've always been so careful. I've always made it a point to behave in a professional manner to the best of my ability. And yet I missed something so obvious. Not only that, but I wasted valuable time and money on web development skills I don't need. Chagrinned doesn't begin to cover my current mood. Murderous is more like it, or rather suicidal.

All is not lost. Blogger has provisions to make a blog private. I have implemented these provisions on my writing spots. This should keep them ungooglible and yet allow friends and fellow writing group members to view the work, which was really the only purpose of the blogs to begin with. But there's more to it than this debacle.

My lapse in judgment, or whatever you want to call it, regarding "publication" on the Web has shaken me to the core. If I could make such a fundamental mistake about writing, how do I know that any of my decisions or choices is sound? How can I trust my own judgment about anything? The fellow who unleashed the mule kick is very offhand about it. "Mistakes happen." But he hasn't had to watch ten years of his life come tumbling down around him, revealed as totally meaningless and worthless. Perhaps it's a lesson I needed, but it's certainly a shock I'll take a while to recover from.

Another modest success

Word came in today's snail mail that "Deck The Halls" received honorable mention in this year's NFB Writers Division Fiction Contest. Though as with the HM sitation in the Poetry Contest for "the Escape" there is no money involved, still it's a bit of a morale boost.

Also since my last post, I have joined the Analog Writers Group.

Long Time No Blog

I see it's been some months since I last wrote in this space. Oops! Sorry, guys!

It would be nice to report that in the interim I've been doing really wild things; but, alas, I cannot tell a lie - not unless I want my nose to grow, anyway. I've been putt putting along, but that's about all.

In July I did learn that my poem "The Escape" earned Honorable Mention in this year's NFB Writers' Division Poetry Contest. As such, it will be published in the Division's magazine, Slate and Style. That is the single bright spot in an otherwise dismal year to date. I've collected several rejection letters, and that single HM was all I got out of the Division contests.

However, I forge ahead. Currently, "Spirits from the Vasty Deep" is out to Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show.

I'm stuck, again, on Marooner's Haven, my SF Romance, but am trying not to worry about it. While that's stewing and brewing in ye old unconscious I've also been working a bit on "The Lady of the Stars" and a couple of the stories/chapters in A Very Dragon Christmas. Also need to get back and finish "World Enough and Time."

On the other hand, I've gotten back to a few online discussions and fora, including the Analog and Asimov's writers' fora, which is pleasant. I've joined Library Thing, where I catalogue my dirt world library and participate in a couple of ongoing discussion threads. Can't get into my Glass Hammer Forum account. I've lost my password and need to do a bit of research to retrieve it. Also can't remember my Twitter log in. Really, I try to use the same log in on everything; but, obviously, it doesn't always work out in practice.

I've also recently gotten back to Fun Trivia, a quiz and trivia site that has communities called "teams." I very much like belonging to all these communities. But the center of my online life remains Howard Empowered People. That's where I feel most at home.

Dirtside, I continue to read, of course. Currently interested in Jung. Got into The Twilight Saga earlier in the Summer. As usual with such things, I don't understand why people complain about it. I find it an enjoyable series. Actually, much as I like Harry Potter, I think Twilight is better written and more likely to stand the test of time. But that's just me. Now, I suppose, I'll have hordes of Harry fans coming after me with pitchforks. *sigh* Oh well…

Anyway, this entry is more than long enough. Signing off for now.

Don't Panick!

Don't panick, but do be aware that Towel Day is Monday. Be prepared, know where your towel is, and offer thanks to whatever supreme being you happen to worship that we were able to experience Douglas' genius, for a little while.

The Black Arrow

I've just read The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson. Can't think why I never read this adventure story set during the Wars of the Roses before, since that historical period has always interested me. The hero, Richard Shelton, is brave if unworldly, sometimes to the point of silliness and recklessness. Still, his struggles with divided loyalties, adventures with outlaws in the wildwood, participation in an all too grownup and deadly if relatively small battle and, above all, his determination to rescue and marry his pretty sweetheart, Joanna Sedley should please readers of all ages.

The only major drawback to the book is Stevenson's treatment of Richard Plantagenet. In accordance with the calumny so effectively propagated by the Tudors and not finally discredited till the mid to late Twentieth Century, Stevenson depicts Richard as a villain, an ugly and bitter hunchback, ruthless and ambitious. In this view, Richard's undeniable nobility and courage serve only as spurs to his wickedness. It is highly to be regretted that an intelligent, sensitive man and fine writer such as Stevenson accepted these lies as historical fact. He did accept them, though, and using them he paints a vivid picture of "Richard Crookback," as he is called in the novel. Briefly though he appears, Crookback is a formidable figure against whom the hero, Richard Shelton shows both to good and to bad advantage. That is, young Master Shelton is, to be blunt, no warrior. At the same time, he has a true and loyal heart and, the reader is sure, has learned from his youthful mistakes and will grow into both a goodhearted and a sensible man.

Dom DeLuise has died

LOS ANGELES - Dom DeLuise, the portly entertainer and chef whose affable nature made him a popular character actor for decades with movie and TV audiences as well as directors and fellow actors, has died. He was 75.

Agent Robert Malcolm said DeLuise died about 6 p.m. Monday at St. John's Health Center in Santa Monica. Malcolm said the family did not release the cause of death.

"He had high blood pressure, he had diabetes, he had lots of things," but seemed fine as recently as two weeks ago, he said.

DeLuise entered the hospital on Friday and his wife and all three sons were there when he died "peacefully," Malcolm said.

A family statement said, "It's easy to mourn his death but easier to remember a time when he made you laugh."

The actor, who loved to cook and eat almost as much as he enjoyed acting, also carved out a formidable second career later in life as a chef of fine cuisine. He authored two cookbooks and would appear often on morning TV shows to whip up his favorite recipes.

As an actor, he was incredibly prolific, appearing in scores of movies and TV shows, in Broadway plays and voicing characters for numerous cartoon shows.

Link
Dom DeLuise, actor, comedian and chef, dies at 75

Shorthand Adapted from Braille

I have adapted the system of Braille contractions and short-form words to a shorthand for use on Twitter.

Single Letter Contractions

B but
C can
D do
E every
F from
G go
H have
J just
K knowledge
L like
M more
N not
P people
Q quite
R rather
S so
T that
U us
V very
W will
X it
Y you
Z as

Multi-Letter Contractions or Short-Form Words

ab about
abv above
ac according
acr across
af after
afn afternoon
afw afterward
ag again
agst against
alm almost
alr already
al also
alt altogether
alth although
alw always

bc because
bf before
bh behind
bl blind
blw below
bn beneath
brl Braille
bs beside
bt between
byd beyond

ch child
chn children
concv conceive
concv conceiving
cd could

dcv deceive
dcvg deceiving
dcl declare
dclg declaring

fst first
fr friend

ei either

gd good
grt great

herf herself
hm him
hmf himself

imm immediate

lr letter
ll little

mch much
mst must
myf myself

nec necessary
nei neither

o'c o'clock
onef oneself
ourvs ourselves

pd paid
percv perceive
percvg perceiving
perh perhaps

qk quick

rcv receive
rcvg receiving
rjc rejoice
rjcg rejoicing

sch such
sd said
sh shall
shd should
st still

td today
tgr together
th this
themvs themselves
tm tomorrow
tn tonight

wd would

xf itself
xs its

yr your
yrf yourself
yrvs yourselves

Twenty Years of a Fatwa

Salman Rushdie reflects on twenty years under a fatwa. The article could have gone into more detail about his writing, but makes a pleasant read.

Click the title to go to the AP article.

London's Babylon exhibit divides myth and reality

LONDON (Reuters Life!) - A new exhibition in London explores the reality behind the myths of ancient Babylon through art and relics from the historic site.

"Babylon: Myth and Reality" at the British Museum places artifacts from the site of the ancient city alongside contemporary news footage and works depicting Babylonian themes from such artists as William Blake, Cornelis Anthonisz and Pieter Bruegel the Elder.

...

The reality of ancient Babylon is demonstrated through numerous artifacts from the site.

The walls are flanked by blue-and-gold glazed panels from the city's processional road and detailed cuneiform scripts describe pivotal moments from Babylon's history.

One giant tablet covered in cuneiform known as the "East India House" slab describes Nebuchadnezzar's rebuilding of the city's holy districts. Another, the "Cyrus Cylinder" relates Cyrus of Persia's conquest of Babylon in 539 BC.

The site of Babylon, which sits about 85 miles south of modern Baghdad, has been altered often in modern times. The area was damaged during the 2003 U.S.-led invasion to topple President Saddam Hussein, who also built a huge palace nearby that overlooks the city.

...

The exhibition depicts the damage done to the site during U.S. occupation and Saddam Hussein's leadership through news footage from modern day television broadcasts.

"The effect of the Gulf War was that it concentrated public attention, concern and worry onto Iraq," he said. "The disasters affected the archaeology of the whole country."

I hope there's extensive news coverage of the exhibition. I'd love to see pictures, at least.

Link
London's Babylon exhibit divides myth and reality

Life on the edge for Syrian artists

Click the title to read the full article at the BBC

In the second of his articles from the Syrian capital Damascus, the BBC's Martin Asser looks at the role of the cultural life in a police state which for years has oppressively controlled freedom of expression.

I was trying to buy a banned book in Damascus by one of Syria's top literary figures, and to my surprise it seemed to be going rather well.

The bookseller phoned another supplier located nearby. A boy was dispatched and soon returned with my request, discretely folded in a plastic bag.

Actually, I confess to being somewhat disappointed - as I had been trying to test one of Syria's famous "red lines".

These are the taboos imposed by Syria's repressive government on public discussion of things like politics, the ruling Assad regime, or the security forces.

So how was I standing in a bookshop in the centre of the Syrian capital having just bought a book that crossed a whole tangle of red lines, In Praise of Hatred by Khalid Khalifa?

Happily, or perhaps unhappily, my faith in Syrian totalitarianism was restored as soon as I asked for a receipt for my purchase.

"I can't give you one, sir," the bookseller hissed conspiratorially. "It's banned, it's a banned book. Let me make it out in a different title for the same price."

Which he did, officially "selling" me a fictional work (in more than one sense) called In Praise of Women.

It's not perhaps a very good fit, but the above excerpted article reminded me of a story in the December '08 issue of Asimov's Science Fiction, "The Flowers of Nicosia." Click the story title for an excerpt.

Snowball

"Confusticate and drat it all!" I slammed back from the computer, taut with frustration, and sat for a moment, staring at the monitor screen. It seemed to stare back with its enlarged print and enhanced, brightly colored cursor. Then, I sank my head into my hands. "I can't," I moaned. "I can't, can't, can't write!"

"What's the pur-roblem?" my cat, Snowball, inquired languorously. She sounded so relaxed!

I dug my fingers through my hair and groaned. "The problem is that there's nothing I can write about." Snowball made a low, rumbly sort of inquiring sound. I sat up and swiveled to look at her where she lay on the windowsill, ears perked, large, round, green eyes trained on me attentively. I sighed. "You're supposed to write what you know, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, everything I know - my real or everyday life, my dream life, my fantasy life," I choked on a sob and returned my head to my hands. "Even and especially my pain and despair and emptiness life -" Snowball growled. I ignored her and my ungrammatical construction. "Everything I know is Kit." Snowball sneezed.

She had never liked Kit, and had made no bones that she was satisfied that he and I had broken up. But, I was devastated by the breakup. I hadn't eaten, hadn't showered, hadn't gotten dressed for days. The only thing that kept me going was needing to take care of Snowball. Then, I had woken up this morning, well, actually, it had been almost 12:30, and looked listlessly at the large display digital clock which showed not only the time, but also the date and room temperature. With a shock, I realized that the deadline for the NFB Writers' Division contests was only four days away. I had to enter something, and fast! After washing and filling Snowball's food and water dishes and cleaning her litter box, I sat down listlessly at the computer. But, everything I started seemed too personal, too intense, too Kit.
Now I tried to explain this to Snowball. She rumbled thoughtfully. "Don't humans write about their most intimate ex-purr-iences in autobiographies, and memoirs, and those novels with the Fur-rench name?"

"Roman à clef? Yes. And, most first novels are largely autobiographical as well."

She sat up and began washing her paws. "So," she inquired again with a delicate redirection of emphasis, "what's the pur-roblem?"

"I find that sort of stuff distasteful enough to read, let alone to write."

"Writing about one's life and everyday ex-purr-ience, you mean?"

"Yes."

She began washing her face. I loved it when Snowball washed her face, and the top of her head. She was absorbed in this important business for several minutes. When she finished, she blinked. "Is everything in your life distasteful?"

It was my turn to blink. "Well, no, I suppose not. But..."

"Is everything in your life too intensely purr-sonal to talk about?" she pursued, stretching her front paws.

"Well, no; but..." I stared at her. She stared back, sublimely unconcerned. She yawned.

"Is there anything, or purr-haps anybody in your life that is noteworthy?" she asked with a fine show of indifference.

I began to grin. And, as the grin grew broader, I felt the despondency and writer's block disperse, like a thick fog stirred by a breeze. I still missed Kit something awful but, for now at least, I had something to do. Of course! It was so simple. "I'll write about you," I said, leaning forward to rub Snowball's head. "I'll be sure to win First Prize in the Fiction division."

I laughed, the first time in days, in weeks, I'd laughed as she reared up, the image of a lion rampant. "What do you mean the Fiction division?" she demanded in a low growl.

I smoothed the ruffled fur on her back. "Well, after all," I said. "No one would accept a story about a talking cat as nonfiction."

Snowball growled. Ignoring her, I stood up. "Man, I'm hungry! I'm going to have a nice, big breakfast, or brunch, or whatever and then, thanks to you, Snowball, I can get to work."

Jumping down, she followed me into the kitchen. I poured her a saucer of milk as a special treat, and then bustled about distractedly. I only just avoided putting the Canadian bacon in the toaster and the frozen French toast in the microwave in my excitement.

"What should I call the story?" I mused while setting the table. "Something snappy. Cat On A Hot Tin Roof? Na, that's been used. Hmm. The Cat Who Came In From The Cold? Long Cat's Journey Into Night?"

Snowball jumped onto my chair and sniffed at my plate as I set it down. "Are you going to drown that in maple surr-up?" she asked disapprovingly, pointing at the Canadian bacon with her nose.

"Yep." Picking her up, I moved her to the other chair. Then, I sat down and began extravagantly buttering the French toast. "How about All'sS Cat That Ends Cat?" Snowball sneezed. I looked up in concern. "Are you getting a cold, Kitty?"

"No," she said testily. Climbing up, she sat on the far edge of the table and glared at me. I could tell she was glaring because her eyes had changed from green to yellow. I watched her warily. If they turned orange, I was really in trouble.

"I think," she said, "and since I'm the subject of this so-called 'story' my opinion ought to be taken into consideration - I think you should call it Snowball The Wonder Cat."

I choked on a bite of French toast. "W-wonder cat?"

She crossed her paws in front of her chest and glared still more intensely, orange eyes glowing. "Wonder Cat," she repeated grimly. "After all, how many talking cats do you know?"

Asimov's Three Laws Of Robotics

Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics," Jenna said breathlessly."

"Whose three laws of what?" demanded Rick. "That doesn't sound familiar." He leant back and rubbed his eyes and then his forehead wearily. "And, what's it got to do with babies anyhow? We're s'posed to be doing a project on the history of prenatal education. What's robo-whatsitz got to do with that?"

"Robotics," Jenna explained patiently. She pushed vaguely at her chair and resumed her seat at the kitchen table, putting her wavy pale pink hair back over one shoulder. Opening his eyes again, Rick looked across at her and wondered, not for the first time, with affectionate amusement why she had to do weird things to her hair. Last week, briefly, it had been violently purple. For himself, he liked it the original brownish blonde. But then, he thought without resentment, he wasn't clever and imaginative like Jenna. She went on. "Asimov was one of those ancient writers. You know, like Rowling and Shakespeare and Chaucer, one of those guys who only had one name."

"Oh yeah," Rick said, perking up. "I like Chaucer, especially the story about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Whose tale is that, I can never remember."

"The Tolkien's Tale," Jenna said promptly. "Remember, we know - well, the scholars know - what all the other people are: the Knight, and the Cook and the Franklin, and the religious people like the abbess and the Clerk. Even Piers the Ploughman who tells that weird story about Will Langland's dream and the Pearl. All of them except the Tolkien. Nobody can figure out what a tolkien was."

Rick grinned and reached for his protein energy drink. "Of course. You always remember stuff like that. I think you remember everything you've ever read." Jenna was spared the embarrassment of agreeing that this was pretty much true by Rick's sudden, indignant splutterings. He put the plasticoid tumbler down with a bang and wiped his mouth emphatically on his sleeve. "Brussellsprouts!" he growled, pronouncing the hateful phrase as if it were one word. He looked accusingly at Jenna. "How can you drink it?"

Trying very hard not to laugh, Jenna cradled her own tumbler in her hands. "I'm not. Mine's tropical fruit. I did warn you that the one you had was gross."

Rick subsided into gloom. "So, what's this ancient Asimoo--"

"Asimov," Jenna repeated, still patient but also amused now. "I'm trying to tell you. A long time ago, in the ancient times when they thought digital cameras were a pretty neat idea, this Asimov person - Professor Calvin thinks it must have been a woman, since what is known of the males of that period makes it unlikely in Professor Calvin's opinion that a man could have formulated such advanced ideas --"

Rick muttered, "Good old Suzy," but not loud enough for Jenna to hear. Prof. Calvin might be stiff and dour, but she knew her paleo-anthropology. Jenna was going on happily. She loved explaining, especially things that nobody else had ever heard of.

"Anyway, sometime around the middle of the Twentieth Century, she formulated what have been known ever after as 'Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics.' She even predicted that they would outlive all her other work. Nothing else is known about her. It is thought that she was very prolific, but only two fragments remain: a sentimental fantasy story called 'Robbie" and a fragment which is thought to have been an introduction to a collection of stories and essays. That fragment is usually referred to as 'the Three Laws Fragment,' and it is in this that she predicts the survival of the Laws formulation beyond all her other work."

Rick sighed and reached for his tumbler. It would not have occurred to him to throw away food or drink simply because he disliked it. He took a cautious sip. "So," he said, making a face at the tumbler, "what are these three laws anyhow?"

Jenna took a pull at her tumbler as though to fortify herself, while Rick eyed it gloomily. He liked tropical fruit. The next time he invaded Jenna's parents' fridge, he must remember to take a pink tumbler instead of a green one. Jenna set down her drink and recited:

Asimov's First Law of Robotics: A robot must not injure a human or by inaction allow a human to be harmed.
Asimov's Second Law of Robotics: A robot must obey any order given it by any human, except where such obedience would conflict with The First Law.
Asimov's Third Law of Robotics: A robot must protect its own existence except where this conflicts with The First or Second Law.

She sighed. "I'd like to recite them in the original Old Inglish, it's so sonorous! But, I cant remember."

Rick was staring at her, open mouthed and slightly green. "But," he managed after a moment, "those are..."

"I know," Jenna said quietly.

"Well, the first and third are anyhow."

"I know," Jenna said again.

There was a pause.

"But," Rick said desperately, "that was over three thousand years ago. Centuries before anyone thought to program babies in eutero with the fundamental Laws of Humanity." Jenna just looked at him. "Criky, Jenna," he went on weakly. "It was centuries before they even tried to inculcate the Laws into babies and small children."

"Yes," Jenna said, and her eyes were shining. "Isn't it amazing to think that a person so primitive, totally lacking and unable even to imagine all our tools and, and advantages, could formulate our most fundamental Laws of Humanics?

"Of course, she obviously thought of them simply as fantasy, or maybe the socio-political climate - or even the intellectual climate - made It necessary for her to frame them as fantasy. I mean, she applies them to robots, whatever those are. She didn't think, or she wasn't free, to apply the Laws properly, to humans." Jenna paused, looking thoughtful. "I wonder which it was. Oh well. We'll probably never know."

Rick hardly heard his friend's philosophical ruminations, but then he seldom did. "Yeah," he said fervently. "Totally awesome!" Then he shook himself as if waking from a pleasant doze. "But, how does that help us with our project?"

Jenna clicked her tongue, the only indication she was willing to give of impatience. "Really, Rick," she said, "I would have thought it was obvious. This is just the beginning, the hook we've been searching for. Of course everybody knows the history of prenatal education. That's why I was so annoyed when Professor Montessori assigned it to us. But, don't you see? We can use the history of prenatal education as a jumping off point. We can turn our project into..."

"Into a paleo-anthropological and paleo-literary study," Rick almost shouted, waving his tumbler over his head.

Jenna beamed. "It'll take a lot of work. There isn't much in the scholarly literature about prehistoric adumbration of modern attitudes and customs and that; but, I think we can do it."

"Sure we can do it!" Rick was on his feet, gray eyes flashing, hands (and the forgotten tumbler flailing in his excitement. "With your proficiency in the ancient languages and your understanding of the ancient texts, and my analytical abilities, we ought to be able to pull off a Science Fair project that'll knock their sandals off!"

This story recieved Fourth Prize in the NFB Writers Division Fiction Contest for 2002.

Brontë Sinclair's Island: Chapters X & XI

Chapter 10
Brontë saw the girl in the foam green dress, hunched in her wheelchair, sitting all by herself near the open doors to the terrace almost as soon as he entered the hall with his parents. He felt sorry for her. The noise and light levels were not oppressive, but even he already had slight sensory overload. There were sort of a lot of people, and a sensitive person or one not used to crowds might feel more comfortable watching from the side. Still, it was no fun sitting all alone. He'd go speak to her; not to bother her if she didn't want company, but to let her know she didn't have to sit by herself. Excusing himself mumblingly to his parents, who had already spotted familiar faces and were moving towards the adult bar at the far end of the room, he sauntered towards her.

He lost sight of her as he went. The music was in full swing and a few couples drifted or gyrated around the dance floor. He passed among knots and bigger, looser groups of youngsters whispering conspiratorially or talking animatedly with much laughter, hand clapping and gesticulation. But always he spotted her again, still and hunched, her head down. It was further to the terrace doors than it had look, as though the hall grew as he crossed it. But, finally he was through the press, within a few steps of her, and he could see her clearly. She looked to be around thirteen, just about a year younger than himself. Her face was pale; not merely faire skinned but unnaturally pale as with illness or nervousness. Her hair, which was cut short, was the color of sunshine early on a summer morning and very curly. Her eyes were the same sea green as her dress. Indeed, the fabric must have been selected specifically for the color, or even dyed specially. Though he was generally aware of prettiness only in flowers and birds, Brontë thought the effect a becoming one.

And now he could see that she was either totally blind or very close to it. She looked like a nice person and intelligent. You couldn't say her eyes were vacant - there was definitely somebody home behind them - but there was some indefinable something about her, some way in which she was just slightly less aware or just slightly more closed in than the sighted and partially sighted. Anger flared in him and his fists clenched. Whoever had brought her, probably her parents, had just parked her here without so much as a PCR or a service animal to talk to. He wondered if she even had a PCR or a service animal (chimpanzees were most common for the very severely disabled). Probably not. People like that wouldn't want her to be able to do anything without them.

He stepped back and then advanced towards her, making his tread firmer, heavier than usual so she could tell someone was coming towards her. It worked. She started and raised her head, straightening her shoulders just a bit. She looked a little alarmed but not frightened. "Hi," he said cheerfully, stopping right in front of her. "I'm Brontë." After a moment's thought he knelt down to be more on a level with her. "What's your name?" he prompted.

"Emma."

"That's a pretty name."

A faint color rose in her cheeks, making her look healthier. "Thanks."

"Sure thing." He glanced around, casting about for something else to say. He wasn't good at chitchat. He liked talking about real things, sailboats and horses and maybe garden design (He got that from his mother.) But you couldn't start out with stuff like that. You had to start out general. And, he wasn't good at general. Then his gaze rested on the glass door, twice - three times - the width of an ordinary door, folded back against the wall in front of which Emma's chair had been parked.

"It's nice over here," he remarked, feeling a little silly. " Not quite so hot and noisy, and you get some breeze." As he spoke he felt the faint wind on his face and saw it ruffle her unruly curls. She nodded and murmured some vague assent. Taking a deep breath, Brontë decided to cut to the point. "But, you know," he said gently, "I can't help wondering how come you're sitting all by yourself."

In the instant after the words were out, he wondered if she'd be angry and send him away. But she seemed only resigned and a little sad as she replied, "Mama left me here. She said she'd come right back, but she didn't."

Fury blazed through Brontë's whole body, tightening his chest and his throat; blanking out his sight and hearing; freezing his very thoughts for a moment. Then the worst past, like a storm front that leaves rain after it, rain that isn't scary, that you can cope with. He could cope with this anger, think through it. And he thought, "Lousy, rotten people! They don't deserve to have a little girl. Just walking off and abandoning her like that!" But he forced his eyes to focus on Emma, forced his voice to be calm as he asked, "How long ago was that?"

Emma shrugged. One of her shoulders rose higher than the other, and it looked as though the gesture hurt her. "I donno. I don't have a watch."

Suddenly Brontë jumped up. He had to dump his energy somehow. "D'ya wanna dance?"

"I'm in a wheelchair." She didn't sound scornful or defiant, just as though she were stating a fact that he might not have noticed.

"I know. But, that doesn't mean we can't dance. C'mon. I'll show you." He stepped behind her chair. "Brakes off?"

She leant forward stiffly, and it took longer than he expected before she sat back and said, "Yes."

"OK. Hang on. I'm not real good at driving these things."

She giggled. "Neither's Mama. She runs me into things all the time."

He only just managed not to speak aloud his thought, "And here I imagined my opinion of her couldn't get any lower." He was actually a good driver, steady and firm. They wove through the shifting crowd and soon reached the dance floor, where another wheelchair occupant and his partner were already doing their thing among the ambulatory dancers. Brontë wheeled Emma onto the floor, turned her ninety degrees and stepped in front of her. "OK," he said a little breathlessly. He'd never done this before and wasn't altogether sure it would work. "Hang on tight. Here we go." There were two sets of handgrips at the front of the chair arms, one vertical and one horizontal. Emma was holding the horizontal ones. Brontë gripped the verticles and began stepping backwards and forwards. Then he tried arcs and spirals across the floor. When the music crescendoed, he spun her in a tight circle, squealing wheels barely audible. By the end of the dance, they were both flushed and laughing. And somehow Emma didn't look so little and frail and ill. "That was fun," she exclaimed.

"Yeah." Brontë pretended to slump against the handles of her chair. "But I gotta sit down. Let's go get something to drink and maybe sit on the terrace."

All the life went out of Emma like air out of a balloon. "I'd better go right back to where Mama left me," she said in a small, scared voice. "She told me not to stir from that spot. She'll be mad…"

Because his adrenalin was already flowing, Brontë barely noticed the rush of anger. When he spoke his voice was strong, almost authoritative. "If she's gonna be mad at anybody, she can be mad at me. This is s'posed to be a party. Yu can dance if you want to."

"They need to know where I am." Her voice had become so small and constricted that he had to lean over the back of the chair to hear her.

He sighed. "All right. We'll find them and tell them you're with me. And then we'll get our drinks and go outside. It's too hot and noisy in here anyhow. He slewed her chair in a wide arc. The dance floor lay between them and where the grownups were congregated at the upper end of the hall and in rooms beyond. "Where are your parents? Do you know?"

"They said something about sitting with the mayor."

"With the mayor. Important people then. But, obviously, important people weren't .always smart people. Feigning a calm he didn't feel he said, "We'll be able to find the mayor easily enough. My own parents have probably drifted towards him too."

Slowly they made their way forward. It was awkward pushing the chair and leaning over the back to talk, but that was the only way he could hear her now that they were in the thick of the crowd, and he managed. "Your parents know the mayor too?" she asked.

"Yep. How come yours do?"

"Papa's a grain merchant. Anyhow, he says he has the mayor's ear. I'm not really sure what that means, but I think he's kind'a important."

Brontë chuckled. "Yeah, grain merchants are kind'a important. I wouldn't be surprised if your papa has the mayor's ear. What's his name?"

"Tom Morrow."

Brontë stopped walking. Morrow? Tom Morrow? Yes, he was important. The youngest president of the Corn exchange in a century and a half. He wasn't strictly speaking a politician, but he was every bit as important as Brontë's own father, who was a world senator, and very possibly more powerful. He looked down at the pretty, frail, sweet little girl in the wheelchair and thought savagely that Morrow was also a stupid, thoughtless idiot who deserved…

"How come your parents know the mayor?" Emma asked again.

Just as he began to answer, he was distracted by a shout. "Hey, Brontë!"

Straightening, he turned to see his friend Steve waving. "Hey, Steve," he called back. Where's Arrabella?"

Steve made a face. He'd drawn closer. "Powdering her nose. Saw you and your girlfriend on the dance floor. Quasar!"

"Thanks. Come and meet her." Emma shifted uncomfortably but Steve pushed past the last couple people between them and thumped Brontë on the back. "Emma," Brontë said, this is Steve. Steve, Emma."

"Hi, Emma," Steve said. Rising on tiptoe, he turned a circle in place. "Ah, there she is. Catch you cats later." And he plunged off into the crowd.

"Doesn't stay in one place long, does he?" Emma observed as they started again.

"Not he. I think he must have been a butterfly in a previous life."

"Brontë! There's no such thing as previous lives."

"Sorry," he said, surprised. "It's just a figure of speech."

"A who?"

"A - a saying."

"Well, don't say it. Our Lord is the Way, the Truth and the Life. There isn't any other. And reincarnation is an evil superstition. "

He sighed. Just his luck to befriend a Christian Fundamentalist. Of course what she said was true. He believed that. He knew that. But it didn't stop him using common turns of phrase. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I won't say it any more if it upsets you."

"Thank you," she said primly, and he smiled.

They were almost to the corner where the mayor was holding court. Brontë's heart skipped. There was Morrow. He'd never met the grain merchant, but all Nova Britannia knew him by sight. He faltered. But then he spotted his mother talking animatedly to the prima ballerina of the City Ballet. He couldn't remember ever being so glad to see her. Morrow hadn't seen them yet, Heaven be praised. Turning aside, he headed for his mother.

She looked up with her usual impeccable timing and wonderful lack of surprise. "Oh, hello, dear," she said. "Found someone to talk to then?"

"Yeah, umm. Hi Mme Fontaine."

The ballerina kissed her slender fingers and waved them at him. "Bonsoir, my 'andsome boy," she said, tactfully stepping back. "I speak more with you tomorrow, Marjorie, yes?"

"Yes. I'll call you around lunchtime, Yvette. Glad I ran into you. Good night." Turning her attention to the children, Mrs. Sinclair leant down to look into Emma's face, and gently took her hand. "And, who have we here?"

The words tumbled out of Brontë before Emma could do more than draw breath. "She's Emma Morrow, Mom, Tom Morrow's daughter, and they left her all by herself over by the terrace doors and told her not to go anywhere, and I went to talk to her and we danced, but now she's scared that her parents'll be mad 'cause she didn't stay where they put her like a bloody statue, and her father's over there talking to the new prime minister of Nova Italia, and…" He swallowed. He couldn't say what he thought of the Morrows' treatment of their daughter in front of her. So, he looked appealingly at his mother.

She returned his look gravely. "Is all this true, Emma?" she asked kindly.

Emma nodded and sniffed.

Mrs. Sinclair produced a disposable handkerchief from somewhere - she was marvelous about that sort of thing - and gently wiped Emma's face. "And what are you going to do now?" she asked.

Brontë shuffled and looked down. Their plan sounded pretty flat when you came to tell it to a grown up. But Emma said, "We're gonna find my parents and let them know I'm with Brontë. And then," She turned her head. She couldn't look right over her shoulder at him, but he understood that was what she meant. "Brontë said we could get drinks and go out to the terrace."

"Sounds like a plan," Mrs. Sinclair said, smiling. "It is a bit warm and noisy in here. "So, first we've got to find your dad and let him know where you'll be, right?" Both children nodded. "Well, that's easy enough. As Brontë says, he's not far away, talking with Prime Minister Grimaldi. I'll go over with you, shall I?"

Brontë heaved a mighty sigh of relief and Emma said, "Yes please, Mrs. - I don't know your name." She sounded surprised. Brontë to was startled till he remembered that he had been interrupted before telling Emma who his parents were. He groaned.

But his mother said merely, "Sinclair. I'm Mrs. Sinclair, dear. And Brontë's father is Sen. Sinclair."

A little shiver passed over Emma. "Yes, Please, Mrs. Sinclair," she said. She hesitated. The back of her neck turned pink. That will help."

"What will help?" Mrs. Sinclair asked, mystified.

"That you're important." Emma sounded embarrassed. "It's silly and it's not right, not what Our Lord taught us; but Papa and Mama - especially Mama, though they both are - they're really impressed with important people." Brontë rolled his eyes. Really stupid people. But Mrs. Sinclair was paying attention to Emma and missed it. "So," Emma went on, "They won't be mad when they find out that I've made a new friend as soon as they find out he's a senator's son." For the first time her voice grew hard, not with anger Brontë realized, but with contempt. "'Cause they'll think a friend like that'll be useful." She almost spat the last word.

Mrs. Sinclair straightened slowly and looked at Brontë. He'd never seen quite such a terrible look on her face before. To relieve his seething feelings he made a rude gesture and, rather than rebuking him, she nodded. There was a pause.

When Emma spoke again, her words brought tears to their eyes. "So maybe they'll let me and him be friends," she said.

Chapter 11
Morrow was annoyed at having his tete-a-tete with the Italian PM interrupted. He was far more annoyed at the manner of the interruption. "Mi scusi, Tony," Mrs Sinclair said, tapping Grimaldi on the shoulder.

Looking every inch the former soccer star he was, Grimaldi turned, beaming as though Mrs. Sinclair was his long lost sister. "Marjorie, cara mia!" he cried, enfolding her in a bone crushing hug and kissing her on each cheek. Morrow frowned. They spoke for a moment in low, breakneck Italian that obviously left Morrow just as much in the dust as Brontë. Another reason to despise the pudgy little man. Though he was fluent in the native Nova Britannian language, the Aboriginal language as it was officially known, Brontë's own Italian, like his French, was barely sufficient to order cocoa and pastry. But he wasn't a magnate, an interplanetary economic power. He was just a kid. Tom Morrow, he'd once heard his dad explode in exasperation, had the power to say whether whole planets and moons ate or starved. But he couldn't speak one of the most important Nova European languages?

Then the prime minister spoke to the grain merchant in British that was tinged by only the faintest accent. Seniore Morrow, do you know Marjorie Brainerd Sinclair, landscape architect and wife of Nova Britannia world senator Whitman Sinclair?"

Morrow started. Brontë couldn't see much of his face, but his body language was loud and clear. Brontë thought resignedly that if he and Emma were going to be friends, he'd have to stop thinking about how much he despised her father every time he took a breath. "Marjorie Brainerd," Morrow said with unctuous enthusiasm as he shook her hand. "I've never had the pleasure. My wife's a great fan of yours, Miss Brainerd, Mrs. Sinclair I should say. She has all your books and vids." He gave a false little self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm not good with plants and such things myself; so, I leave all that to Muriel. She'll be very excited when she hears I've met you."

Mrs. Sinclair smiled and murmured as though the flattery pleased her and the prime minister said, "I think, Seniore, it will be best for you to speak with my minister of Agriculture, and perhaps also the minister of Internal Affairs and Welfare. They have the expertise you need." He made a pretense of peering out into the crowd. "I think I see my wife. Please excuse me. Buona notte, Marjorie." He kissed her again and hurried off. Brontë was amused to see that he looked relieved. Morrow shifted uneasily. It was clear that he did not share his wife's high opinion of Marjorie Brainerd and felt that talking to her would be a waste of his valuable time. But, since she was a celebrity in her own right as well as the wife of a powerful member of government, he couldn't give her the bum's rush. Emma had pinned her father accurately, however babyish she might seem in other ways.

Brontë snapped back to attention. For, as Morrow moved, his glance fell on Emma and Brontë himself. For an instant what he was seeing didn't register with the grain merchant. Then a look of such anger contorted his face that Brontë took a long step backwards, his knuckles white and his hands almost numb from gripping the chair handles. It wasn't the frightened anger his parents and grandmother had shown when he was little and they caught him doing something dangerous. That had been scary but comforting too, because he knew they loved him and that was the real reason they were mad. To Brontë who had been brought up by loving parents whose lives, for all their worldly success, centered on him Morrow's rage resembled nothing his parents had ever directed against him. It looked like a bully or petty tyrant who'd been disobeyed and was out to get the person who'd disobeyed him. Brontë was glad to have the wheelchair to lean on. He'd only seen that look in vids, on ruthless, evil villains. He'd never seen it in real life, and his knees were trembling. He was glad Emma couldn't see it, though she'd probably recognize it if she did.

"Mr. Morrow?" Mrs. Sinclair's voice seemed to come from a long way away. Brontë shook himself just a little. It felt as though he'd been staring at that murderous face for eons. But it must only have been a few seconds. Slowly Morrow smoothed his features into a mask of geniality. "This is my son, Brontë," Mrs. Sinclair said.

Unwillingly but knowing what his mother expected of him, Brontë stepped to the side of Emma's chair and offered his hand." Brontë," Morrow acknowledged as they shook with that bluff heartiness so many grownups adopted when addressing youngsters.

He met the grain merchant's gaze calmly, steadily. At fourteen, he was already as tall as many grownups. It pleased him that he was taller than Morrow. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Morrow," he said correctly and a little stiffly. He took refuge behind the wheelchair.

"Please, Papa," Emma burst out. "We want to go outside…onto the terrace… Is that OK?"

Brontë knew he should keep his mouth shut, but prudence had never been one of his strong points. So he said pointedly, "Emma wanted to let you know, Sir, so you wouldn't worry." He held Morrow's eye till the man shifted and looked away. Had he known it, Brontë looked at that moment very much like his father, before whom braver and far wickeder men than the president of the Nova Britannia Corn Exchange had been known to wilt.

Morrow cleared his throat and addressed his daughter. "Of course you may, Emmikins. But you didn't need to come ask me. You could have asked Mama. She was right there with you."

Brontë opened his mouth to retort and closed it again without seeing Mrs. Sinclair's warning gesture. This was Emma's dad. She had to talk to him, to explain the situation. And she did so quite creditably. As Brontë watched Morrow's face throughout the brief narration, he began to wonder if he'd been mistaken, had somehow misinterpreted the man's initial reaction to seeing him and Emma. Now at any rate, his reaction seemed right: surprise, alarm, disappointment, disgust and anger chased each other across his unguarded face until he smiled faintly when Emma spoke of Brontë, whom she clearly regarded as the hero of the little drama.

Morrow returned his attention to Brontë. "Thank you for taking an interest in Emmie," he said. A lot of children, and a lot of adults as well I'm sorry to say, wouldn't take the trouble to speak to someone sitting alone. If I may say so," here he glanced at Mrs. Sinclair, "it was not only the kind thing to do, but the right thing to do." Brontë squirmed. But he said thank you with as much firmness and assurance as he could manage. "Run away now," Morrow said with an assumed heartiness that didn't entirely disguise his uneasiness. Grateful to escape, they fled.

Brontë Sinclair's Island: Chapter IX

Chapter 9
We engaged in some Smalltalk during which Sinclair expressed admiration for the garden and invited Jocelyn to call him by his first name, and Jocelyn did a good deal of blushing and stammering. Soon, though, being a person of good sense and fundamentally sound nerves, she calmed down to her normal self. It was at that point that we were able to get down to brass tacks.

"As I told you, love," I said, "Brontë has a problem."

She turned to Sinclair. "Charlie has given me the summary," she said gently. "If you want to tell me a bit more, to talk about Emma that might help you feel better; and it might help us understand the situation more thoroughly and think what to do. But, if you don't, that's all right too. We have enough information to be going on with."

She paused. Since he didn't answer she went on, looking thoughtful. "You know," she said slowly, "Emma came to stay with me once, two or three years ago. Her parents weren't thrilled with the idea, but of course both Percy and her PCR were here, and they were staying on the other side of Falibana, so in the end they allowed it. We had a good time. Poor Emma. I hated to send her back to the gilded cage her parents keep her in. I wonder if she could come and stay again."

"That's all very well," I began, wondering at the irrelevance of the remark. That was unlike Jocelyn.

"Yes," she interrupted impatiently. "But, don't you see? That way, the two of them could have time together. I know how important it is for me to have you around and just have time together to talk, or not talk, or whatever without knowing you've got to leave in half an hour, or whatever." I felt the same way and said so, a little awkwardly.

There was pain in Sinclair's face as well as doubt. "I don't know," he said. "It's worth a try." He shrugged hopelessly. "It's better than anything we've been able to come up with." He turned slightly away, his shadowed face wistful. "Maybe we could even take her to Marooner's Haven for a little while. I… I designed it for Emma and she's never seen or set foot on it."

I thought about the old fashioned, comfortable but, yes, totally accessible house, and the gardens, and the shore skimmer. "You fitted up that shore skimmer for Emma, didn't you?" I asked in sudden comprehension.

"Yes. She never had one. Her parents thought it was too dangerous. And, of course, when she was little it was. But even now she's not allowed to go on the water. I think myself it's more because Mrs. Morrow can't swim and is afraid of the water than because of Emma's disabilities, but those do offer a convenient explanation. I'm amazed they let her ride."

"Me too," I nodded." Thank the Trinity they do, though."

"Oh, yes. She'd go mad otherwise."

Jocelyn, who had been thinking, broke in. "Is it you the Morrows disapprove of, Brontë, or the general idea of Emma having a beau? If it's only you they object to, there's a chance we can change their minds. If they don't want her to have a gentleman friend," she paused. "Well, I'm afraid you're sunk.
To be continued