davel
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response 1 of 234:
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Dec 28 12:56 UTC 1996 |
> #191 Dave Lovelace(davel) on Mon Dec 9 21:18:49 1996:
> OK, here goes. Since there are a few names which would give the thing
> away pretty much instantly to many people who may be stumped otherwise,
> I'm going to x them out, in the time-honored fashion.
>
> Mr. Theocritus Way, this chronicler must now hasten to establish,
> was not the bookie immortalized in the foregoing anecdote. He
> was, however, a man who had concentrated on the subject of Odds
> with an almost comparably classic single-mindedness.
>
> Indeed, one of his oldest but perennially profitable
> discoveries in the field was directly tied to the same numerical
> quibble between Odds and Evens. At any bar where he might be
> chumming for potential suckers, when the inevitable dispute
> eventually arose as to who should buy another drink, he would
> promptly suggest that they match for it. The mark could hardly
> refuse this, and would take from his pocket the conventional
> single coin. Mr. Way would then say, with a skillfully intangible
> sneer: "The hell with that penny-matching stuff. That's how
> some guys got rich making double-headed coins. Let's play Monte
> Carlo Match."
>
> He always had some high-sounding name, suggestive of
> authenticity and tradition, for the games that he invented.
>
> "What's that?" the innocent would ask.
>
> Mr. Way would haul out a handful of small change, which he
> jingled noisily in his closed fist to leave no doubt that it was
> a fair quantity.
>
> "I got a mess of chickenfeed here," he would explain, with
> labored patience for such ignorance. "You grab a stack from your
> own pocket. We slap it all on the bar--two stacks. Suppose your
> stack turns out to be an odd number, and the total of our two
> stacks is also an odd number, you win. Suppose you got an odd
> number, and the total of us two is even, you lose. Or vice
> versa. That's one bet you can't fix, because neither of us knows
> how many coins the other's going to have."
>
> The mark might win or lose the first time, on this fair
> fifty-fifty basis. Mr. Way rather liked him to win, because that
> made it somewhat easier to insist on another match for money
> instead of drinks. And one game easily led to another, and
> another, for increasing stakes. If the dupe insisted on them
> taking turns as matcher, Mr. Way would take his honest
> fifty-fifty chance. But after the first time, the victim never
> had a chance to match to match the total of their combined hands
> in oddness or evenness.
>
> Whenever the other was trying to "match," Mr. Way simply took
> care to have some odd number of coins in his own stack.
> Therefore if the mug also had an odd number, the total had to be
> even; if the mug had an even number, the joint total had to be
> odd. Stated this way, any intelligent reader will see that the
> stupe would have had the same fifty-fifty chance of finding
> somebody with a right foot growing naturally on his left leg.
> But it was a gimmick which had paid Mr. Way more cash dividends
> than Albert Einstein ever earned from the Theory of Relativity.
>
> The fond parent who had him baptized Theocritus was only
> another of the human race's uncounted casualties to misguided
> optimism. Even in his tenderest years, his contemporaries
> declined to accord him even the semi-dignified contraction of
> "Theo." They abbreviated him swiftly and spontaneously to
> "Tick." The record does not show whether this was initially due
> to his instinct for stretching credit to the snapping point
> whenever he was supposed to do the paying, to his physically
> insignificant stature, or to his extraordinarily irritating
> personality; or to a combination of all three. But the monicker
> clung to him like flypaper into the middle-aged maturity where
> his path crossed [xxxx]'s, which is the only encounter this short
> story is seriously concerned with.
>
> However, in contradiction of some recent propaganda which
> purports to attribute all adult crime to the cancerous
> frustration of the growing boy, it must be instantly said that
> "Tick" Way consistently collected above-average grades, and
> revealed an especial talent for mathematics. But instead of
> being thus inspired to think of a career in science or
> engineering, his temperament had been impressed only by the
> magnificent possibilities of pigeon-plucking that were opened up
> by the magical craft of figures.
>
> (I'm hoping that no one gets it before I have a couple more cracks at
> some of Tick Way's more interesting scams, not to mention extracts
> from other works.)
>
> #192 ExtraSaurus(omni) on Mon Dec 9 22:51:18 1996:
> Jimmy Breslin
>
> #193 Dave Lovelace(davel) on Tue Dec 10 06:09:49 1996:
> Eh? (Whoever that is, it's not him.)
>
> #194 John H. Remmers(remmers) on Tue Dec 10 06:16:08 1996:
> Off-the-wall guess: Isaac Asimov.
>
> #195 Daniel L. Marchant(creole) on Tue Dec 10 09:49:49 1996:
> Anthony Trollope.
>
> #196 Dave Lovelace(davel) on Tue Dec 10 12:59:10 1996:
> Heh. Nope, not Trollope. Not Asimov, either, though I think I see where
> *that* one comes from. (John is one of the folks here whom I feel
*moderately* > sure has read something by this author. The quoted work,
however, is a tiny > bit out of the author's main groove ... and for that
matter the author's style > evolved considerably over a long career ... so I
don't think John has any > unfair advantage.) > > #197 Nick Cheese, Internet
Detective.(omni) on Tue Dec 10 13:13:47 1996: > Jimmy Breslin is an
irrasable NYC columnist, much akin to Mike Royko, only > not as snooty. > ;)
> > #198 little rolled-up pillbug(adania) on Tue Dec 10 19:22:04 1996: > For
some reason that quote reminded me of james joyce... > > #199 Dave
Lovelace(davel) on Wed Dec 11 07:45:59 1996: > Not *that* Jimmy, either. (It
would be interesting if you'd said what the > reason was ... ) Let's see ...
I'm going to skip past one example > of Tick Way's technique which involves a
problem I think most of you > will be aware of: the probability of two people
in a random group > having the same birthday. (The mathematics are in fact
fully > explained in the story in such a way as to not bog the plot down >
too much.) Tick's technique is reasonably consistent. (I'm also > going to
allow the protagonist his first name, I think, but leave > out full names &
giveaway descriptions.) > > He had even graver doubts when he saw
the obnoxious operator > again the next day. Wandering up to the
Futuramic Terrace in search > of a long cooling potion after a couple of
hours of swimming and > sunning himself on the beach, he spotted the
little man sitting at > one of the tables by the pool, unselfconsciously
exposing as much of > his bulbously misproportioned physique as could not
be contained in > a pair of garishly flowered Hawaiian shorts, and
holding forth to a > pimpled and sulky-mouthed young man and two
tough-looking > middle-aged women with the unmistakable air of dames who
had never > yet lost an elbowing contest at a bargain counter. >
The table, like all others on the terrace, sported a cloth > patterned
in red, white, and blue stripes about three inches wide; > and Mr. Way
was flipping cigarettes a foot or two into the air so > that they fell on
it at various random angles. > "In Pakistan, where it's practically
the national game, they > call it Tiger Toss--from the board they play
on, which has black and > yellow stripes. And they use carved ivory
sticks instead of > cigarettes. But the measurements are relatively just
the same: the > sticks are exactly as long as the stripes are wide. Like
on this > cloth, the stripes happen to be just as wide as one of these >
cigarettes is long. See?" > He demonstrated. >
"Then you toss a stick, or a cigarette, onto the board, or the > cloth,
and see how it lands. It has to spin in the air and turn > over so
there's no chance of controlling it. If it comes down > completely
inside a stripe, you win. If it falls across a dividing > line, you
lose. Like this. . . . But wait till you hear the catch." > [Simon]
waited, at a diffident distance towards the background, > but no farther
off than other patrons or passers-by whose attention > had been caught
and held by Mr. Way's provocatively high-decibel > style of conversation.
> "The pitch they give the peasants is that this is the rajah's >
way of distributing charity so as to do the most good. You know--if >
you give a rupee to every starving slob, they'll all be just as >
hungry again tomorrow; but playing Tiger Toss, the lucky ones could >
make a pot of money. And the guy who's running the game--who's got >
a concession from the rajah, of course--shows 'em how easy it is. >
'Look,' he says, 'even if a stick falls at right angles to the >
pattern, there's still room for it inside a stripe. And the more it >
falls at an angle, the more room there is.'" Mr. Way illustrated the >
fact with a cigarette. "'Until if it was parallel with the stripes, >
there'd be room for eight or nine of 'em to lie in there side by >
side without touching the dividing line,' says this official gypper. >
But they never got me to play. No, sir." Mr. Way's insufferably >
malevolent stare swung him around like a scythe. "Before I'd buy a >
tale about a philanthropic rajah, I'll believe in a big-hearted >
Shylock." > Without giving anybody time to draw a deep
breath, he picked up > another cigarette and went on: "Right away, *I*
can see how anybody > with a grain of sense would look at it. Either the
stick gotta fall > at right angles to the stripes--like this--or it
doesn't. It's as > simple as that. One or the other. A fifty-fifty
chance. And once > it falls like this, square across the stripe, if it's
only a hair > off of dead center, see, it has to touch the line or cross
over the > next stripe. Now, there's so little chance it'll fall dead
center, > one in a million maybe--you can forget it. So it still boils
down > to whether it falls square or not." > "Now wait a
minute, smarty-pants," riposted one of the women, > in an almost equally
strident voice. "If that's what you call using > a grain of sense,
saying it's fifty-fifty if it falls this way or > two hundred other
ways--" > "At least, there are ninety degrees in a right angle," >
corrected the pouty young man. "So if you said eighty-nine other--" >
"Are you ribbing me, trying to sound like those other benighted >
heathens?" snarled Mr. Way. "Or if that's what you call your >
intelligent opinion, would you back it up with any more than hot >
air?" Even from his attenuated costume he was able to produce a wad >
of currency which he slammed on the table with a vehemence that >
almost equalled a slap in the face. "You want to bet even money >
with me? I'll say the cigarette touches the line, you can do the >
tossing, and we'll see who comes out ahead. And I'll fade anyone >
else who wants to come in." > Simon adroitly evaded the
contentious bantam's challenging > eye, and drifted on to find himself a
vacant table, where he asked a > mildly befogged waiter for a Pimm's Cup,
a pencil, and a piece of > paper. When all these items were finally
delivered, he sipped the > cold ambrosial drink and went soberly to work
with the other > articles. By that time, a "Tiger Toss" school was in
full and > audible session on the other side of the terrace, with Mr. Way
the > self-appointed banker daring all and sundry to prove themselves as
> ignorant as the credulous Pakistanis. > The techniques of
bogus backgrounding, Machiavellian > misdirection, and a gadfly approach
that could be relied on to make > almost anyone but a lower-case saint
too furious to think straight, > were the same as the night before. But
the specific probability > problem, shorn of the artistic camouflage,
Simon soon found, would > be unscientifically called a snorter. >
Since it is not the purpose of this story to double as a first >
primer of higher mathematics, which it may already have started to >
sound like, the reasoning by which [Simon] solved this rather >
interesting equation must be omitted from the present text. To >
anyone who has not set at least one foot in the mystic realm of >
trigonometry it would be meaningless. Those who have studied such >
subjects, of course, may recognize it at once under the name of >
Buffon's Problem. [Simon] took much longer to wring the correct >
answer out of his rusty recollections, and when he had done it he >
had even more respect for the perverse astuteness of Mr. Way. > >
(At this point another, related plot thread reasserts itself; in the > course
of the dialogue it's revealed that "the odds are almost > exactly seven to
four against the stick, or the cigarette, falling > cleanly inside a stripe."
I think I verified this myself the first > time I ever read the story.) There
are several clues visible in this > extract, BTW. > > #200 Dave
Lovelace(davel) on Sat Dec 14 08:54:48 1996: > No guesses? Let's see...to
spoil any surprise on the end of this story: > the protagonist entices Way
into a game (a variant on the "Monty Hall > Problem", discussed at great
length a few years back here on Grex, BTW) - > with the odds in Way's favor
... but rigs the game (sleight-of-hand, > at which (like *everything* else)
this protagonist is unreasonably > skilled) so that Way in fact loses his
shirt. Keeping a chunk of his > gains for himself, he returns the rest to one
of Way's victims. > > Let's try an excerpt from another story, in some ways
more typical. The > *style* is again normal for this period of the author's
writing - to my > ear distinctly different from his earliest works, which I
may yet have > time to quote at the present rate ... > > [Simon] met
Otis Q. Fennick on the fire escape of the Hotel > Mercurio, in San
Francisco, at about four o'clock in the morning. > Like many another
eminently simple statement, the foregoing now > involves an entirely
disproportionate series of explanations. > [Simon (full name)] was
staying at the Mercurio, which was a > long way from attaining the
luxurious standards of the kind of hotel > that he usually frequented,
because when he headed for San Francisco > he had neglected to inform
himself that a national convention of the > soft-drink and candy industry
was concurrently infesting that > otherwise delightful city. After
finding every superior hostelry > clogged to the rafters with
manufacturers and purveyors of excess > calories, he had decided that he
was lucky to find a room in any > hotel at all. > The room
itself was one of the least desirable even under that > second-rate roof,
being situated at the back of the building > overlooking a picturesque
alley tastefully bordered with garbage > cans and directly facing an
eye-filling panorama of grimy windows > and still grimier walls
appertaining to the edifice across the way. > The iron steps of the
outside fire escape partly obscured this > appealing view by slanting
across the upper half of the window; and > it was there that Simon first
heard the stealthy feet of Mr. > Fennick, and a moment later, being of a
curious disposition, saw > them through a gap at the edge of the
ill-fitting blind. ... it had > been very late when he got home, and he
had only just shed most of > his clothes and brushed his teeth when he
heard the furtive > scuffling outside which was the surreptitious descent
of Mr. > Fennick. > In such a situation, the ordinary
sojourner in even a second- > rate hotel would either have remained
gawking in numb perplexity or > have started howling an alarum, with or
without the intermediacy of > the house phone. Not being ordinary in any
way, [Simon (full name)] > rolled up the shade with a craftsman's touch
which almost > miraculously silenced its antique mechanism--he had
already switched > off the lights in order to see out better, and the
window had never > been closed since he accepted the room, on account of
the stuffiness > of its location--and swung himself across to the nearest
landing of > the fire escape with the deceptively effortless grace of a
trained > gymnast, having reacted with such dazzling speed that he
arrived > there simultaneously with the cautiously groping prowler. >
"Me Tarzan," said [Simon] seductively. "You Jane?" >
His voice should not have been at all terrifying--in fact, it > was
carefully pitched low enough to have been inaudible to anyone > who had
not already been disturbed by Mr. Fennick's rather clumsy > creeping.
But Mr. Fennick was apparently unused to being accosted > on fire
escapes, or perhaps even to being on them at all; at any > rate, it was
immediately obvious that no intelligible sound was > going to emerge for
a while from the fish-like opening of his mouth. > It became clear to
Simon that the acquaintance would have to be > developed in a more
leisurely manner and less unconventional > surroundings. >
"You'd better come in before you catch cold or break your > neck," he
said. > Mr. Fennick gave him no struggle. He was a small man, and >
[Simon]'s steel fingers almost met their thumb around the upper arm >
that they had persuasively clamped on. He squeezed his eyes very >
tightly shut, like a little boy, as Simon half lifted him across the >
space to the window sill, which was really no more than a long >
stride except for having about forty feet of empty air under it. >
With the blind drawn and the lights on again, [Simon] inspected > his
catch with proprietary interest. Mr. Fennick wore a > well-pressed brown
double-breasted suit of conservative tailoring, a > white stiff-collared
shirt, a tie very modestly patterned with > neutral greens, and even a
clean felt hat of sedate contour. To > match his skinny frame, he had a
rather wizened face with a sharp > thin nose, a wide thin mouth, and
lively intelligent brown eyes when > he opened them. He looked much more
like a member of some Chamber > of Commerce and pillar of the Community
Church than a felonious > skulker on fire escapes. > "You
know," said [Simon] at last, "I don't think you're a > burglar after all.
And this would be a rather desperate hour for a > Peeping Tom. I guess
you must be a candy cooker." > "That's right," Mr. Fennick said
eagerly. "The Fennick Candy > Company. You must have heard of it." >
He whipped out a wallet and extracted a card from it with an >
automatic dexterity which even his temporarily shattered condition >
could not radically unhinge. He went on, in a kind of delirious >
incantation: "Jumbo Juicies, Crunchy Wunchies, Crackpops, Yummigum-" >
"That sounds like a powerful spell," said [Simon] respectfully. >
"now are you supposed to vanish in a puff of smoke, or am I?" >
"I wish I could," said Mr. Otis Q. Fennick, President, > forlornly. >
> Um, folks, let's *try* to extract some clues from these things. Sex, >
nationality, dates of the author? Genre? There are some big hints in > these
extracts, BTW. One hint: all of the "[Simon]"s (except the couple > that say
"full name" are descriptions; we have here an author who has a > consistent
protagonist (in every work I'm aware of, BTW), whom he > *usually* tags with a
title not a name. (I'll even add that the title > appears, in incidental
contrast, somewhere in these excerpts. > > #201 nsiddall(nsiddall) on Sun Dec
15 16:44:36 1996: > These are enjoyable quotes, but I have no idea about the
author. The sort > of excessively articulate style reminds me of
something--Sinclair, Thurber, > Waugh...who is the author of that book "Mr.
Blandings Dream house? (I know > I'm only supposed to get one guess, so those
aren't guesses.) > > #202 Dave Lovelace(davel) on Mon Dec 16 06:52:33 1996: >
(But since no one else is guessing, I'll categorically say that none of those >
folks is it. We're operating at a somewhat less rarified level.) > > #203
nsiddall(nsiddall) on Mon Dec 16 11:07:18 1996: > Actually, I think the
obscure literary processing center of my brain spit > out Upton Sinclair when
it really meant Sinclair Lewis. That's not really > a guess, either, since
I'm pretty sure this character is not related in any > way to Babbit. That
Monty Hall puzzle seems to keep reviving itself, like > the Good Times
virus--I'll be interested to find out where it was described > in a work of
fiction. Sometime in the 40s, perhaps? > > #204 Dave Lovelace(davel) on Tue
Dec 17 06:45:07 1996: > A bit later. All of the stories in the collection I'm
currently looking at > are copyright in the years 1956-1959. About that time
(I *think*) there were > movies based on this author's work. The protagonist,
under the description > I've been avoiding, was better known than the author -
***much*** better > known. And his renown was based largely on some of the
author's much > earlier works, but the author continued cranking out short
stories at least > into the late 60s (and collecting income from stories being
written > by others, involving this character, even longer). (I repeat that I
know > of *no* works by this author which do *not* involve this character as >
protagonist.) > > Let's see ... jumping back in on Otis Q. Fennick's
troubles a bit later ... > > Meanwhile, [Simon] had in his pocket
the card which the > uncooperative bartender had given him. It might not
be much, but > it was something. And at least it might help to pass the
time > constructively. > Scoden Street was a narrow turning
off one of the drabber > stretches of Geary, given over to a few small
dispirited > neighborhood shops jumbled among other nondescript buildings
of > which some had been converted into the dingier type of offices and >
some still offered lodgings of dubious desirability. Number 685 >
seemed to combine the two latter types, for a window on the street >
level was lettered with the words VERE BALTON STUDIOS on the glass, >
behind which an assortment of arty enlargements were attached to a >
velvet backdrop, while on the entrance door was tacked a large >
printed card with the legend APARTMENT FOR RENT. > The door
was open, though only a couple of inches. > Simon pushed it with his
toe and went in. > He found himself in a small dark hallway, at the
rear of which > a flight of worn wooden stairs started upwards, doubtless
to the > vacant apartment. Immediately on his right was a door, also
ajar, > with a shingle projecting from the lintel on which the VERE
BALTON > STUDIOS sign was repeated. He went through into a sort of
reception > room formed by the space between the shoulder-height backdrop
of the > front window and a set of full-length drapes which shut off the
rest > of the premises. It contained a shabby desk and three equally >
shabby chairs, but none of them was occupied. > "Hi," said
[Simon], raising his voice. "Anybody home?" > There was no reply,
or even the sound of movement. But the > long drapes were not fully
drawn, and through the aperture he could > see a yellowness of artificial
light. > He went to the opening and looked into the small studio >
equipped with a dais, a tripod camera, and the usual clutter of >
lamps, screens, and props to sit on or lean against. But nobody was >
utilizing the props, and the only lamp alight was a bare bulb >
hanging from the ceiling. > Simon stepped on through the
curtains. The near corner inside > had been partitioned off with
Beaverboard into a cubicle which from > the sinks and shelves of bottles
that could be seen through its wide > open door was obviously used as a
darkroom; but no one was using it. > At the opposite end of the studio
was another door, half open. > "Anybody home?" Simon repeated. >
Nobody acknowledged it. > He crossed the studio
quietly, cutting a zigzag course between > the paraphernailia, and his
second tack put him at an angle from > which he could see the body that
lay on the floor of the back room. > It belonged to a fat man of
medium height with dirty gray hair > and a rather porcine face to which
death had not added any dignity. > There were three bullet holes in the
front of his patchily reddened > shirt, loosely grouped around the VB
monogram placed like a target > over his heart, and two of them were
ringed with the powder burn and > stain of almost contact range. >
Simon bent and touched the back of his hand to one of the > flabby
cheeks--not to verify the fact of death, which was > unnecessary, but to
determine if it were very recent. The skin was > cold. > > #205 John H.
Remmers(remmers) on Wed Dec 18 11:19:26 1996: > <remmers ponders, but so far
hasn't come up with anything...> > > #206 little rolled-up pillbug(adania) on
Wed Dec 18 15:13:48 1996: > mathematical tourist?? > > #207 Dave
Lovelace(davel) on Thu Dec 19 09:48:06 1996: > At this point in his career,
the protagonist could be described as something > of a professional tourist,
officially retired from his earlier life, yes. > The mathematics is just that
one story ... but one thing I particularly like > about this author is a kind
of willingness to take almost any kind of idea > & use it well. There's one
story (which I personally don't especially like) > in which the protagonist
saves the world from being taken over by termites > (complete with Mad
Scientist who has been giving termites the tools of > civilization), for
example. I'm going to run out & grab another story > collection for extracts
from a couple more stories ... > >
"_Wine,_that_maketh_glad_the_heart_of_man_," quoted [Simon's full >
name], holding his glass appreciatively to the light. "The Psalmist >
would have had things to talk about." > "It would have been
a love match," said Lieutenant Wendel, like > a load of gravel. >
"Up to a point," Simon agreed. "But then he goes on: >
_And_oil_to_make_him_a_cheerful_countenance_. Here we start asking >
questions. Is the prescription for internal or external >
application? Are we supposed to swallow the oil, or rub it on the >
face? . . . I am, of course, quoting the Revised Version. The King >
James has it _Oil_to_make_his_face_shine_, but the revisers must >
have had some reason for the change. Perhaps they wanted to restore >
some element of ambiguity in the original, dividing the plug equally >
between mayonnaise and Max Factor." > The detective stared
at him woodenly. > "I've wondered a lot of things about you,
[Simon]. But what a > guy like you wants with that quiz stuff is beyond
me." > Simon smiled. > "A man in my business can never
know too much. A brigand has > to be just a little ahead of the
field--because the field isn't just > a lot of horses trying to win a
race with him, but a pack of hounds > trying to run him down. Quite a
lot of my phenomenal success," he > said modestly, "is due to my memory
for unconsidered trifles." > Wendel grunted. > > Frankly, that
conversation goes on interestingly, and another little > fact (or rather
non-factual legend) about wine which gets brought in > makes a significant
appearance at the climax. *Very* economical story > construction, very
pleasantly done. But a bit long to quote. (I may > yet eventually quote the
next page or so, & maybe from the climax, too. > We'll see.) > > Let's try
the beginning of yet one more story. This one is offbeat enough > to have
been anthologized somewhat; I've seen it several places. > > [Simon's
full name] looked up from the frying pan in which six > mountain trout
were developing a crisp golden tan. Above the gentle > sputter of
grease, the sound of feet on dry pine needles crackled > through the
cabin window. > It didn't cross his mind that the sound carried
menace, for it > was twilight in the Sierras, and the dusky calm stirred
only with > the rustlings of nature at peace. > [Simon] also
was at peace. In spite of everything his enemies > would have said,
there actually were times when peace was the main > preoccupation of that
fantastic freebooter; when hills and blue sky > were high enough
adventure, and baiting a hook was respite enough > from baiting policemen
or promoters. In such a mood he had jumped > at the invitation to join a
friend in a week of hunting and fishing > in the High Sierras--a friend
who had been recalled to town on > urgent business almost as soon as they
arrived, leaving [Simon] in > by no means melancholy solitude, for
[Simon's full name] could > always put up with his own company. >
The footsteps came nearer with a kind of desperate urgency. > Simon
moved the frying pan off the flames and flowed, rather than > walked, to
where he could see through windows in two directions. > A man came
out of the pines. He was traveling on the short > side of a dead run,
but straining with every gasping breath to step > up his speed. He came,
hatless and coatless, across the > pine-carpeted clearing toward the
cabin door. > He burst through it; and in spite of his relaxation
[Simon] > felt a kind of simmer of anticipating approval. If his
solitude had > to be intruded on, this was the way it should happen.
Unannounced. > At a dead run. > The visitor slammed the door,
shot the bolt, whirled around, > and seemed about to fold in the middle.
He saw [Simon]. His jaw > sagged, swung adrift on its hinges for a
moment, then imitated a > steel trap. > After the sharp click
of his teeth, he said: "How did you get > in here? Where's Dawn?" >
"Dawn?" Simon echoed lazily. "If you're referring to the rosy- >
fingered goddess who peels away the darkness each morning, she's on >
the twelve-hour shift, chum. She'll be around at the regular time." >
I never dreamed you here," the man said. "Who are you?" >
"You dropped a word," [Simon] said. "'I never dreamed you > *were* here'
makes more sense." > "Nuts, brother. You're part of my dream, and I
never saw you > before. You don't even have a name. All the others
have, complete > with backgrounds. But I can't place you. Funny,-- Look
here, > you're not real, are you?" > "The last time I pinched
myself, I yelped." > "This is crazy," the man muttered. > > (That
one is atypical, I must add. The earlier one is however fairly > typical of
its period. (The stories in *this* particular collection > are a bit earlier,
but still not the earliest vintage: all in the range > 1933-1948 (copyright
dates).) > > #208 Daniel Gryniewicz(dang) on Fri Dec 20 13:01:09 1996: > Is
this the Steel Rat stuff? I admit, I don't know the author off hand. I'd >
have to go to my parents house and look. > > #209 Jan Wolter(janc) on Fri Dec
20 13:17:29 1996: > The author of the Stainless Steel Rat stories was Harry
Harrison. The > protagonist was named Simon, I think. > > #210 Jan
Wolter(janc) on Fri Dec 20 13:18:50 1996: > However, I don't think this is
Harry Harrison. Too many contemporary > references for this to be a Sci Fi
novel. > > #211 Dave Lovelace(davel) on Mon Dec 23 15:43:55 1996: > Jan is
correct - both in that this is not Harrison, & in that Harrison, not > the
author of the current quotes, wrote the Stainless Steel Rat books. I gave >
dates, Dan ... 1930s, 1950s ... > > #212 little rolled-up pillbug(adania) on
Tue Dec 24 01:31:47 1996: > !tel sekari > goddamn grex i sbeing slower than
molasses...I will see you to morr^?^?^?^?tomorrow sometime then... > > #213
back within reach of Grex(davel) on Fri Dec 27 19:12:53 1996: > I see that no
one's guessing. I'll try to move this into winter tomorrow, > get Rane to
link it to books where I can see it. Will quote more (with even > more
revealing bits) at the same time, I hope. Grex was also incredibly slow >
when I got on Monday (from 300 miles from home) & is noow not exactly >
blindingly fast ...
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