In the year 38809, on the colonial planet of Asteron, orbiting the binary star-system of Tellus Minor, Aurora and Tithonus were celebrating their 95th wedding anniversary. Okay, if you're going to get technical about this, it was really their 34,675th wedding anniversary, to be exact.
Tithonus was thawing out in his stasis chamber as Aurora brought a candle-lit cake into the bedroom, topped with 95 candles, which was--all things considered--a more manageable arrangement than a cake topped with 34,675 candles.
Aurora and Tithonus originally moved to Asteron in the year 2320. After medical science had solved the secret of death, back in the year 2193, the blue planet underwent a population explosion.
At first, anathanatonic technology was kept under wraps and reserved for the Nullifidian Order. But as the Nullifidians ceases to age, sicken, and die, the Solafidian underclass naturally grew a mite suspicious--not to say--restive, demanding equal access to anathanatonic therapy.
After a general strike, the Nullifidians gave in, but enacted Draconian birth-control measures to depress the ranks of the Solafidians. The Solafidians, resenting yet another the double-standard, and spotting a chance to shift the balance of power, skirted the measures at every turn until their seed outnumbered the sand and stars.
In due course, the Nullifidians were so overwhelmed that they fell from power and went into exile, taking their anathanatonic technology along with them. For their part, the Solafidians, having cast off the yoke of old Pharaoh, were content, once more, to embrace mortality in the interests of a blest immortality to come.
Having revived from his cryogenic deep freeze, Tithonus was ready to join in the festivities--if "revived" is quite the right word for it.
Aurora and Tithonus had married at the optimal age of 25, as was customary for the Nullifidian Order. Because all Nullifidian marriages were arranged by a computerized dating service, compatibility was assured and divorce was unheard of. And so, for 15 years, they each enjoyed their quantized quota of nuptial felicitude.
And at the age of 40, they both underwent their mandatory course of anathanatonic therapy. The process was irreversible, but accurate to the 99th percentile--followed by some unmanageable string of decimal places.
Yet, much to the misfortune of Tithonus, he beat the stochastically calibrated odds. As a consequence, Tithonus was made immortal, without making him ageless.
At first no one took notice, but after a few years the terrible truth was evident to all--gray hair, crow's-feet, and other such blemishes too dreadful to name. Since nothing could be done to reverse or even arrest the aging process, Aurora and Tithonus, after consulting with the best medical advice, agreed to have him put into stasis for 364 days a year, and reanimated once a year on the day of their anniversary, so that he'd only age at a rate of one day per annum.
This arrangement worked out admirably enough for the first few millennia, but as his metabolic age began to catch up with his calendar age, his personal participation in these anniversaries became progressively less--how shall we say?-- participatory.
Until he reached 70 or so, they could still enjoy a night of love, albeit with rather less vigor and vitality than in times past. And even when the libido began to wane, despite the latest generation of genetically-enhanced aphrodisiacs, Tithonus could catch up on all the latest news. Indeed, it was no small feat to compress several thousand years of history into a few hours of lucidity.
But as the signs of senile dementia began to show, even these pleasantries became a trifle one-sided.
On this anniversary, the difference between his waking state and suspended animation was, as it were, a matter of Scholastic refinement.
After blowing out the candles, Aurora put his cake in a blender, poured it out into a tumbler, and stuck a straw in is mouth so that Tithonus could suck on the layer cake in its reconstituted form--or formlessness, as the case may be.
Due to the technical perfection of digitized match-mating, Nullifidian marriages were ordinarily monogamous and indissoluble. But due to the mechanical mishap in their particular case, Aurora was granted a special dispensation to consummate a bigamous union.
Out of tact for her first husband, she, of course, contracted this arrangement without his knowledge--which, in any event, presented no great obstacle.
Yet that did not solve all her problems, for under Nullifidian law, a couple’s property was held in common, and could not be debited or disposed of without the mutual consent of both parties. Since Nullifidians were normally in the pink of health, there was no provision in law for the power-of-attorney in case of diminished responsibility or mental impairment--which, at the metabolic age of 120, was sadly descriptive of her husband’s condition.
And in this matter, a special dispensation was out of the question, for while the Privy Council of Asteron could be lenient in matters of the heart, yet no such indulgence was permissible in matters of the purse. Why, once you began to meddle with hereditary prerogatives, you might as well be a lowborn Solafidian!
It isn’t that Aurora was by any means destitute. Her second marriage sustained the lifestyle to which she was accustomed by birth and breeding.
Indeed, Nullifidian society was an egalitarian aristocracy. Everyone was rich, and, what was worse--everyone was equally rich! A graduated income tax redistributed the wealth to forestall any unstable class envy between the merely rich and the filthy rich.
But that was just the problem. A nobleman among noblemen was no better than a pauper among paupers. The whole point of social class is to be a cut above. And this worked out well enough when Nullifidians were living and ruling on the blue planet. But when the entirety of the upper crust were packed off to Asteron, there was no longer anyone to look down upon, and I needn’t tell the reader how depressing that could be. Even the very latest generation of psychoactive drugs had been unable to lift the general malaise.
And here was her drooling paramour, astride a tax-exempt pot of gold! If only she could tap into that dormant account, plush with well-nigh 35,000 years of compound interest, she would become the instant queen, nay, the empress, of high society!
Nor must we attribute this deliberation to low motives of greed. Her motives, in her own mind, at least, were as pure as fresh fallen snow. For this would be a restoration of the grand old order, before the Nullifidians were banished to Asteron. A dash of class envy would give the dispirited masses of the idle rich something to live for. Should we wear emeralds or rubies to the ball?
Strictly speaking, the immortals were not essentially deathless. Although they could not die of natural causes or terminal illness, yet even immortals could die in a tragic accident. And in that sad eventuality, the surviving spouse would inherit the estate.
The question, then, was whether his stasis chamber could be adjusted to precipitate an unfortunate accident. This would not be murder, not at least to her high-minded way of thinking. Nay, this would be for the common good. The rights of the many outweighed the rights of the few, or the one.
True, she would be the immediate beneficiary of his princely estate, yet she was but a tool of destiny, consecrated to a solitary and sacrificial destiny. If wealth beyond imagining was the price she must pay to liberate her people from their affluent ennui, then she was prepared to bear the aweful cost alone.
No doubt the estate tax was an onerous affair, but with that kind of money to spread around--a bribe here, a kickback there--the tax rate could be modified upwards--considerably upwards!
These solemn thoughts passed through her head as Tithonus was slurping up his layer cake, in little starts and gurgles, quite oblivious to his signal role in the great scheme of things. What better way to honor her husband? If he could speak, this is what he would want. It would be a mercy to all concerned. Indeed, she was startled by the moral clarity of her vision.
The next question was how she should arrange the accident to make it look--well, to make it look--accidental. Gazing at Tithonus, a flash of inspiration seized her. Suppose she sort of spilled his liquid cake on the controls? If this shorted out the unit, then he would pine away quietly in the night. Yes, there would be an official investigation, but as long as it appeared to be an innocent accident, no charges would be pressed.
She removed the tumbler from his fist, shut the lid, then tipped the tumbler the to one side. The contents spilled out, pouring over the side until they reached the controls. The liquid began to bubble and burn and smell, while the control panel began to sputter and smoke and spark.
In the morning, her second husband came into the bedroom. Aurora and Tithonus had had 24 hours alone, to celebrate their private anniversary.
But on the floor, in a pool of lumpy goo, lay his prostrate wife. Evidently, Aurora was so entranced by the short-circuitry that she failed to notice the slop trickling and dripping onto the floor below, and spreading all around her slippers. When she took a step back, the wet floor conducted the electrical current, shocking her senseless.
After a week, in the hospital, Aurora was released. Although she had escaped electrocution, yet a battery of body scans diagnosed some physical anomalies, the significance of which the medical team was unable to explain.
At first no one took notice, but after a few years the terrible truth was evident to all--gray hair, crow's-feet, and other such blemishes too dreadful to name. She underwent another battery of body scans. Apparently the electric shock had left her immortal, but no longer ageless. Since nothing could be done to reverse or even arrest the aging process, Aurora and her second husband agreed to have her put into stasis for 365 days a year, and reanimated once a year on the day of their anniversary, so that she'd only age at a rate of one day per annum.
Her stasis chamber was set alongside Tithonus who, thanks to an emergency back-up system, had survived the "accident" unharmed.
This arrangement worked out admirably enough for the first few millennia, but as her metabolic age began to catch up with her calendar age, her personal participation in these anniversaries became progressively less--how shall we say?--participatory.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Eyeless in Gaza
-i-
A waitress was serving tables at the Twin-Rivers Cafe when a blind-man with a cane came through the door and stood in the waiting area. She set the dirty dishes aside and hastened over to where he was.
"One for lunch?" she asked.
"Yes."
She took in him gently by the arm and seated him.
"Do you know what you want? I can read the menu to you."
"No, that’s fine. I’d like a cheeseburger with fries, and a coke," he said.
A few tables down from the were three rather loud and rowdy motor-bikers. The waitress went over to refill their water-tumblers. "Is everything okay? Anything else you need?"
"What about having you for desert?" said one of the bikers.
"She faked a giggle and began to walk away when he grabbed her.
"Let me go!" she said. He held on.
"Let me go, I say!"
As she tried to twist free, she knocked the tumblers over, which went smashing all over the floor. And this point, the blind-man got up and walked over to the source of all the noise and commotion.
"Is there a problem?" he asked.
"Problem? I don’t see a problem. Do you see a problem?" the biker said, making fun of his sightlessness.
"The lady told you to leave her be!"
"Boy, Batman to the rescue!"
"I may be blind as a bat, but as long as I can hear you and feel you, that’s all I need." At this point, the blind-man put his martial arts skills to service. A minute later the cook came out of the kitchen to drag the groaning bikers outside.
"Are you all right?" the blind-man asked.
"I’m fine, thanks to you!" she said
She escorted him back to the table, tidied up a bit, then brought him his lunch.
"Meal’s on the house," said the cook, after dumping the bikers on the pavement.
"Oh, it was nothing," said the blind-man.
"You defended my daughter. That’s no small thanks to me!"
"This is my father Ian," she said. He owns the café".
Ian took the blind-man’s hand and shook it warmly, then went back into the kitchen.
"What’s your name?" she asked?
"Marquis. And yours?"
"Griselda."
"That’s a pretty name--to go with a pretty voice!"
She blushed, unbeknownst to Marquis.
"Just passing through?" she asked? "I haven’t see you around before."
"I’ve been staying at the Moriah Motel. I live back East, but the airports are all snowed in, and the local airport is crawling with stranded passengers, so I taxied out here to get a little peace and quiet until the storm blows over."
"Yes, I heard about the blizzard."
-ii-
Marquis heard a knock at the door.
"Hello again, Marquis."
"Griselda!" he exclaimed, registering her voice. "Something smells awful good!"
"I just thought I’d bring you something for dinner."
"That’s real sweet, but you didn’t have to go to all the trouble."
"No trouble at all. Remember, my dad’s a cook!"
"Did you bring enough for two?"
"As a matter of fact..."
"Let me turn the music down," he said, walking over to his portable CD player, as Mendelssohn’s "Es wird ein Stern aus Jacob" was wafting softly in the background.
"No, don’t bother," she said. "I can’t hear it anyway."
"Can’t hear?"
"I’m deaf!"
"Deaf? But how can you hear me?"
"I can’t. I’m a lip-reader."
"Well, what a pair we make--one blind, the other deaf!"
"That was pretty impressive--what you did today. Imagine three thugs bested by a blind-man!"
"Well, when you’re blind you learn to take care of yourself. Most folks go out of their way to be nice, but there are a few who take advantage. So what’s for dinner?"
"Leg of lamb with mashed potatoes and gravy."
"I’ll have to beat up a bunch of thugs more often!"
"What do you do for a living?"
"I’m a musician. And you? Any hobbies?"
"I paint and garden. I should take you by my place before you leave."
-iii-
"I wish you could see the pretty trees and flowers," she said.
"Well, I can tell from the fragrance that you’ve got roses, some honeysuckle, and a magnolia or two. If I could see the trees, what would I see?"
"Down by the river is a stand of weeping willows. The wooded hills on either side are mostly fir, chestnut, and cedar. In the midst of the garden there stands a Jerusalem oak. I thought that’s where we’d have our picnic, to take in the shade. To your right is a locust tree, and on your left is a terebinth."
"Surely you didn’t plant all these trees yourself. They wouldn’t have time enough to grow," he said.
"My forefather Jesse seeded the land long ago. Although some trees were felled for lumber, and others consumed by wildfire, little seedings wiggled up from the stump and scattered acorns hither and yon."
"You’ve got a lot of different song-birds in the garden. Where did they all come from?" asked Marquis.
"Oh, the old lady next door screened in the back porch to turn into a little aviary. When she died, we released them into the wild. But most of them stuck around." Marquis cocked his ear.
"What do you hear?" she asked.
"That’s a wood thrush."
"What does it sound like?"
"It switches back and forth between ‘oh-lee-oh-wee,’ and ‘eee-oh-leee’."
"What else do you hear?"
"A Northern Cardinal. It goes ‘purdee purdee purdee,’ ‘cheer cheer cheer,’ whoit whoit whoit.’ And over there is an Eastern Meadowlark. I tell can by the ‘seeoo, ‘seeyeer’ tune."
"Thank you for bringing to my ears a world I could see, but never hear!" she said
-iv-
"What’s that funny looking instrument in the violin case?" she said, back at the motel. "Looks kinda like a violin, only different."
"That’s a reproduction of an old medieval fiddle.
"Do you play?"
"I’m not very good, but when I’m by myself I make sport upon my rebec."
"Looks like you’re quite the classical music buff," she said, flipping through his carrying case.
"I love music because it brings an unseen world to my sightless eyes. When friends describe the turning of the autumn leaves, or the flowers in spring, I can hear them turning and falling and budding and blossoming in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. When friends talk about a boat ride on down a placid stream, I think of Ravel’s ‘Le Cygne.’ When friends tell me about a tree-lined trail on a lazy summer day, it sounds like a Brahms organ chorale I know: ‘O Traurigkeit, o Herzeleid.’ When the radio is reporting on some natural disaster, I think back to the ten plagues of Egypt in Handel’s oratorio."
-v-
"If I could see your room, what would I see?" he asked?
"My bed, of course, and chest of drawers. A bookshelf and a writing desk. A window overlooking the garden, and a painting over the bed."
"Did you paint it yourself?"
"No, it’s a reproduction of an old painting by Rembrandt on The sacrifice of Isaac."
"Describe it to me, so that I can see it through your eyes."
"The painting is very dark, which highlights the face of Abraham, the angel, and the prostrate body of Isaac. Isaac is stripped down to the waist, with his arms bound behind his back--utterly vulnerable. His bare neck is pulled back to slit open like a chicken’s throat. The patriarch covers the eyes and lips of Isaac with his hand so that his son cannot see the fatal blow coming or cry out in fear.
The figures are backlit by the light of heaven as the angel appears. The dagger falls from Abraham’s hand as the angel stays his hand at the very last moment. The angel and the patriarch make eye-contact while Isaac is blind to the both the danger and deliverance. Rembrandt’s own son posed for Isaac."
"I’ve heard the story before, but never imagined it before. Thank you for giving me eyes to see what my ears could hear."
-vi-
"The least I can do is drive you to the airport," she said.
"Don’t put yourself out on my account," he said.
"But that’s the fun part! We don’t have to like what we have to do, but we have to like what we don’t have to do."
"Does the noise of the airport bother you?"
"It’s a smallish airport. We only get some commuter planes a few times a day. So it’s pretty quiet most of the time. To me, it’s the sound of freedom."
"Don’t you like living here?"
"I like the idea of seeing the world. Hearing the planes come and go makes me think about the world around me. But I’m content to travel in my imagination--in books and paintings. What about you?"
"It’s okay, I guess. I have nothing to keep me there. I guess I stay there out of habit."
"No girlfriend?" she said
"A blind-man is not on the A-list of women seeking men!"
"Depends on the type. What’s yours?"
"Well, for most men, the first thing they look for is looks. I can’t do that, so I notice other things."
"Such as?"
"Such as her voice, her perfume, the texture of her hair. It reminds me of an old poem."
"How does it go--do you remember?"
"Let’s see...
Her wearied wings, which so restored did fly
Above the stars—a track unknown and high—,
And in her piercing flight perfumed the air,
Scattering the myrrh and incense of his prayer;
So from Jacob’s well some spicy cloud—,
Wooed by the sun—swells up to be his shroud,
That—scattered in a thousand pearls—each flower
And herb partakes; where having stood awhile,
And somewhat cooled the parched and thirsty isle,
The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blends
A thousand odors which, all mixed, she sends
Upward in a cloud, and so returns the skies
That dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice."
"That’s beautiful. But it would be hard for any girl to compete with that!"
"Well, that's the stuff of poetry. Every man has a girl of his dreams, but he cannot make love to a dream, so he settles for something more tangible!"
"I know what you mean. Girls have fantasies to! The problem is when we wed the fantasy instead of the man! Should I drop you off at the curb or park the car and walk you to the terminal?"
"The curb will do nicely."
"Come back sometime...sometime soon."
"Yes, I think I will."
A waitress was serving tables at the Twin-Rivers Cafe when a blind-man with a cane came through the door and stood in the waiting area. She set the dirty dishes aside and hastened over to where he was.
"One for lunch?" she asked.
"Yes."
She took in him gently by the arm and seated him.
"Do you know what you want? I can read the menu to you."
"No, that’s fine. I’d like a cheeseburger with fries, and a coke," he said.
A few tables down from the were three rather loud and rowdy motor-bikers. The waitress went over to refill their water-tumblers. "Is everything okay? Anything else you need?"
"What about having you for desert?" said one of the bikers.
"She faked a giggle and began to walk away when he grabbed her.
"Let me go!" she said. He held on.
"Let me go, I say!"
As she tried to twist free, she knocked the tumblers over, which went smashing all over the floor. And this point, the blind-man got up and walked over to the source of all the noise and commotion.
"Is there a problem?" he asked.
"Problem? I don’t see a problem. Do you see a problem?" the biker said, making fun of his sightlessness.
"The lady told you to leave her be!"
"Boy, Batman to the rescue!"
"I may be blind as a bat, but as long as I can hear you and feel you, that’s all I need." At this point, the blind-man put his martial arts skills to service. A minute later the cook came out of the kitchen to drag the groaning bikers outside.
"Are you all right?" the blind-man asked.
"I’m fine, thanks to you!" she said
She escorted him back to the table, tidied up a bit, then brought him his lunch.
"Meal’s on the house," said the cook, after dumping the bikers on the pavement.
"Oh, it was nothing," said the blind-man.
"You defended my daughter. That’s no small thanks to me!"
"This is my father Ian," she said. He owns the café".
Ian took the blind-man’s hand and shook it warmly, then went back into the kitchen.
"What’s your name?" she asked?
"Marquis. And yours?"
"Griselda."
"That’s a pretty name--to go with a pretty voice!"
She blushed, unbeknownst to Marquis.
"Just passing through?" she asked? "I haven’t see you around before."
"I’ve been staying at the Moriah Motel. I live back East, but the airports are all snowed in, and the local airport is crawling with stranded passengers, so I taxied out here to get a little peace and quiet until the storm blows over."
"Yes, I heard about the blizzard."
-ii-
Marquis heard a knock at the door.
"Hello again, Marquis."
"Griselda!" he exclaimed, registering her voice. "Something smells awful good!"
"I just thought I’d bring you something for dinner."
"That’s real sweet, but you didn’t have to go to all the trouble."
"No trouble at all. Remember, my dad’s a cook!"
"Did you bring enough for two?"
"As a matter of fact..."
"Let me turn the music down," he said, walking over to his portable CD player, as Mendelssohn’s "Es wird ein Stern aus Jacob" was wafting softly in the background.
"No, don’t bother," she said. "I can’t hear it anyway."
"Can’t hear?"
"I’m deaf!"
"Deaf? But how can you hear me?"
"I can’t. I’m a lip-reader."
"Well, what a pair we make--one blind, the other deaf!"
"That was pretty impressive--what you did today. Imagine three thugs bested by a blind-man!"
"Well, when you’re blind you learn to take care of yourself. Most folks go out of their way to be nice, but there are a few who take advantage. So what’s for dinner?"
"Leg of lamb with mashed potatoes and gravy."
"I’ll have to beat up a bunch of thugs more often!"
"What do you do for a living?"
"I’m a musician. And you? Any hobbies?"
"I paint and garden. I should take you by my place before you leave."
-iii-
"I wish you could see the pretty trees and flowers," she said.
"Well, I can tell from the fragrance that you’ve got roses, some honeysuckle, and a magnolia or two. If I could see the trees, what would I see?"
"Down by the river is a stand of weeping willows. The wooded hills on either side are mostly fir, chestnut, and cedar. In the midst of the garden there stands a Jerusalem oak. I thought that’s where we’d have our picnic, to take in the shade. To your right is a locust tree, and on your left is a terebinth."
"Surely you didn’t plant all these trees yourself. They wouldn’t have time enough to grow," he said.
"My forefather Jesse seeded the land long ago. Although some trees were felled for lumber, and others consumed by wildfire, little seedings wiggled up from the stump and scattered acorns hither and yon."
"You’ve got a lot of different song-birds in the garden. Where did they all come from?" asked Marquis.
"Oh, the old lady next door screened in the back porch to turn into a little aviary. When she died, we released them into the wild. But most of them stuck around." Marquis cocked his ear.
"What do you hear?" she asked.
"That’s a wood thrush."
"What does it sound like?"
"It switches back and forth between ‘oh-lee-oh-wee,’ and ‘eee-oh-leee’."
"What else do you hear?"
"A Northern Cardinal. It goes ‘purdee purdee purdee,’ ‘cheer cheer cheer,’ whoit whoit whoit.’ And over there is an Eastern Meadowlark. I tell can by the ‘seeoo, ‘seeyeer’ tune."
"Thank you for bringing to my ears a world I could see, but never hear!" she said
-iv-
"What’s that funny looking instrument in the violin case?" she said, back at the motel. "Looks kinda like a violin, only different."
"That’s a reproduction of an old medieval fiddle.
"Do you play?"
"I’m not very good, but when I’m by myself I make sport upon my rebec."
"Looks like you’re quite the classical music buff," she said, flipping through his carrying case.
"I love music because it brings an unseen world to my sightless eyes. When friends describe the turning of the autumn leaves, or the flowers in spring, I can hear them turning and falling and budding and blossoming in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. When friends talk about a boat ride on down a placid stream, I think of Ravel’s ‘Le Cygne.’ When friends tell me about a tree-lined trail on a lazy summer day, it sounds like a Brahms organ chorale I know: ‘O Traurigkeit, o Herzeleid.’ When the radio is reporting on some natural disaster, I think back to the ten plagues of Egypt in Handel’s oratorio."
-v-
"If I could see your room, what would I see?" he asked?
"My bed, of course, and chest of drawers. A bookshelf and a writing desk. A window overlooking the garden, and a painting over the bed."
"Did you paint it yourself?"
"No, it’s a reproduction of an old painting by Rembrandt on The sacrifice of Isaac."
"Describe it to me, so that I can see it through your eyes."
"The painting is very dark, which highlights the face of Abraham, the angel, and the prostrate body of Isaac. Isaac is stripped down to the waist, with his arms bound behind his back--utterly vulnerable. His bare neck is pulled back to slit open like a chicken’s throat. The patriarch covers the eyes and lips of Isaac with his hand so that his son cannot see the fatal blow coming or cry out in fear.
The figures are backlit by the light of heaven as the angel appears. The dagger falls from Abraham’s hand as the angel stays his hand at the very last moment. The angel and the patriarch make eye-contact while Isaac is blind to the both the danger and deliverance. Rembrandt’s own son posed for Isaac."
"I’ve heard the story before, but never imagined it before. Thank you for giving me eyes to see what my ears could hear."
-vi-
"The least I can do is drive you to the airport," she said.
"Don’t put yourself out on my account," he said.
"But that’s the fun part! We don’t have to like what we have to do, but we have to like what we don’t have to do."
"Does the noise of the airport bother you?"
"It’s a smallish airport. We only get some commuter planes a few times a day. So it’s pretty quiet most of the time. To me, it’s the sound of freedom."
"Don’t you like living here?"
"I like the idea of seeing the world. Hearing the planes come and go makes me think about the world around me. But I’m content to travel in my imagination--in books and paintings. What about you?"
"It’s okay, I guess. I have nothing to keep me there. I guess I stay there out of habit."
"No girlfriend?" she said
"A blind-man is not on the A-list of women seeking men!"
"Depends on the type. What’s yours?"
"Well, for most men, the first thing they look for is looks. I can’t do that, so I notice other things."
"Such as?"
"Such as her voice, her perfume, the texture of her hair. It reminds me of an old poem."
"How does it go--do you remember?"
"Let’s see...
Her wearied wings, which so restored did fly
Above the stars—a track unknown and high—,
And in her piercing flight perfumed the air,
Scattering the myrrh and incense of his prayer;
So from Jacob’s well some spicy cloud—,
Wooed by the sun—swells up to be his shroud,
That—scattered in a thousand pearls—each flower
And herb partakes; where having stood awhile,
And somewhat cooled the parched and thirsty isle,
The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blends
A thousand odors which, all mixed, she sends
Upward in a cloud, and so returns the skies
That dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice."
"That’s beautiful. But it would be hard for any girl to compete with that!"
"Well, that's the stuff of poetry. Every man has a girl of his dreams, but he cannot make love to a dream, so he settles for something more tangible!"
"I know what you mean. Girls have fantasies to! The problem is when we wed the fantasy instead of the man! Should I drop you off at the curb or park the car and walk you to the terminal?"
"The curb will do nicely."
"Come back sometime...sometime soon."
"Yes, I think I will."
Heaven on a Dime
-i-
For some six thousand years and counting, the Old Serpent had been plotting his revenge, prodding and testing for any chink into which to pry a curly horn or forked tail. Yet heaven’s defensive perimeter proved to be impregnable--until recently, that is. But Bill Gates, after a long and lucrative career, and despite the best in life-extension technology, had lately suffered a change of address from his waterfront estate to a little patch of Tophet.
Actually, his new address was, for a time, a matter of no small disputation. He was originally assigned to the eighth circle of pimps and seducers owing to his patronage of assorted homosexual causes. But after vigorous plea-bargaining between the High Council of Pandemonium and his old legal team--which naturally enough shared the very same Zip Code--he was able to cop a plea for lodgings in the fourth circle of hell, in the company of the merely avaricious, in exchange for a new software program.
The new program was designed to infect heaven’s mainframe with a virus which would erase the names in the book of life and inscribe the names of the damned in their place.
However, heaven’s firewall was so effective that the actual extent of the damage was both quite circumscribed and short-lived. Why, I’ve even been told by one anonymous, but high-placed source, that this was a celestial sting-operation: the hellish host were allowed to hack into a low-security system in order to smoke out the core insurgents and keep infernal unrest at acceptable levels of mayhem and madness--lest Gehenna go to hell in a hand-basket.
And, indeed, shortly after this fiendishly clever exercise in ID theft was caught and prosecuted, Mr. Gates was promptly transferred from the fourth circle to a lower rung of the eighth circle, among the common thieves, well below the pimps and seducers.
-ii-
One temporary consequence of the sting operation is that a few smalltimers like Tony Romano did enjoy a brief layover in Abraham’s bosom--if "enjoy" is quite the right word--before their final destination. Last thing Tony remembers was being turned into a human fountain after he got caught using marked cards in a friendly little game of five card stud. Next thing he knows, he finds himself queued up in the customs line of Zion International Airport.
"Anything to declare?" said a beefy looking cherub in a blue uniform. Too flustered by it all to answer, Tony stood there, slack-jawed. The cherub motioned Tony to go through a portal--setting off a metal detector.
"All firearms must be checked at the front desk," the cherub said rather brusquely, pointing to a sign over his head. Fishing a forty-five out of his sock, Tony meekly handed over the weapon.
"Pistols in the blue bin, Uzis in the black bin!" the cherub snapped. After disposing of his weapon, Tony waited for further instructions.
"Okay, time to strip," said the cherub, matter-of-factly.
"Strip?" said Tony. "You mean, strip search--right here in front of God and everybody? I got rights, ya know!" he snarled in his shrill Chicago accent.
The cherub starred at him uncomprehendingly, then shoved a frilly white robe in his face. "Changing rooms are over there. Oh, and don’t forget your sandals!"
-iii-
As Tony exited the airport, he was greeted by Michael and Gabriel. "Mr. Romano," said Michael, extending his hand. "Welcome to the New Jerusalem."
Nervously shaking his hand, Tony said, "How come you know my name? Are you with the FBI or something?"
"I’m not quite sure what you have in mind," said Gabriel. "We’re members of the orientation committee. Every newcomer is assigned a tour guide for the first few days to get his bearings. Heaven is a big place, you know!"
Tony responded with a tight smile. Not for a moment was he taken in by their holier-than-thou airs. Hey, he wasn’t some babe in the woods. He’d been around the block a few times. Heaven was just another scam. Their unctuous demeanor was only a pious front. Every angel had an angle, and the trick was for him to keep up appearances while getting them to drop the pose.
-iv-
"So, Mr. Romano," said Gabriel, "what’s the first thing you’d like to see?"
"Wasn’t there something about gold-paved streets and pearl-studded gates?" Tony asked. "Or was that just a fairy tale?"
"Not at all," said Michael. "Let’s take you to the main entrance."
Michael emitted a whistle in acuti, and a taxi immediately pulled up to the curb. "To the pearly gates," said Gabriel.
The taxi dropped them off at the curb of New Eden Municipal Park. Birds were singing. Lions and lambs were playfully chasing one another. The river flowed with milk and honey. The trees were abud with golden apples and gemstones.
"Pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say?" said Gabriel.
"I guess so," said Tony. "But just think what a developer could do with a lot like this? You could put the condos over here, a shopping center with a Wall-Mart and MacDonalds over there."
They continued their stroll through the park until they reached the main gate, encrusted with pearls. Tony was temporarily bedazzled, but then said, "Where are the cops and the security cameras?"
His question drew blank stare. "What do you mean," Michael asked?
"How do you keep folks from stealing the goodies?"
"This is heaven, remember?" said Gabriel, shaking his dreadlocks.
"Oh, yeah, how could I ever forget," said Tony.
-v-
"Tony, how’d you like to attend a concern tonight?" Gabriel asked.
"I guess so," said Tony. "Who’s on the bill?"
"Vivaldi has written a brand-new Gloria for the occasion. I’m doing the trumpet accompaniment," said Gabriel. "And Uriel will play a Handel harp concerto. Ever since Handel got his sight back he’s been composing at a furious pace. Mendelssohn is working overtime just to keep apace!"
"And Raphael even commissioned Bach to compose a solo cantata for the occasion," Michael said. "If you think Joan Sutherland has a swell high C, just wait till you hear Raphael’s C above high C!"
-vi-
Tony stumbled out of the concerned hall, bleary-eyed and blinking in the bright light. "I thought you said this was an evening concert?" Tony exclaimed.
"Oh, in heaven, night-time words are just a figure of speech," Michael explained.
"Your attention seemed to drift a bit half-way through the harp concerto," said Gabriel.
"It’s not the kind of music I’m used to," Tony said. "Hey there, Mickey. Does Peggy Lee ever sing here?"
"I think she’s in the ‘other’ place," said Michael, looking down.
"Too bad!" Tony exclaimed. "I don’t suppose you ever heard her sing, ‘I got it bad, and that ain’t good?’?"
"Can’t say I have," Michael said.
"Me neither!" said Gabriel.
"Well, you gotta admit she had a great pair a-knockers and gams," said Tony, jabbing Gabriel in the ribs and winking at Michael.
"The angels exchanged quizzical stares," so Tony kept on winking and making hourglass gestures with his hands.
"Mr. Romano," Michael said. "Your eye is twitching. Do you have a speck in your eye, or is that just a natural tick?
"Are you angels always so serious?" Tony asked, in a tone of exasperation.
"To the contrary," said Gabriel, "we have a highly developed sense of humor. You just need to get to know us a little better. Why, only last week, Tobit told a hilarious joke about Calabi-Yau space!"
"If you don’t mind," said Tony, "I’d like to be alone for a while."
-vii-
Tony found his way back to the garden. When no one was looking, he began to pry pearls free from the gate with a box-cutter he smuggled out of the airport. He was so immersed in his work that he didn’t hear Gabriel glide up from behind and tap him on the shoulder.
He spun around, pearls flying every which way.
"Holy smokes!" he exclaimed. "You near ‘bout scared me to death, sneaking up like that!"
"Pardon me for asking," said Michael," but why are you chipping away at the pearls?"
"Well, it’s like...uh...like them pearls were a little...a little smudgy--yes, smudgy, that’s what they were! And so I was just trying to polish 'em up a bit before gluing 'em back, you see!" said Tony.
"That’s very considerate of you," said Michael, "but there’s really no need. We have cleaning crews to dust and polish."
"You mean," said Tony, you have to go work even after you get to heaven?"
"Naturally!" Michael exclaimed. "Of course, union rules exempt the cherubim and seraphim from the more menial tasks, but the heavenly host keeps everything spick-and-span on a rotational basis: Thrones on Mondays, Dominations on Tuesdays, Virtues on Wednesdays, Powers on Thursdays, Principalities on Fridays, as well as angels and archangels on Saturdays."
"Sounds undemocratic to me!" Tony exclaimed.
"Didn’t you ever read Dionysius? I guess the public school system must be even worse than it’s rumored to be! Why, the division of labor is all laid out in his book on the Celestial Hierarchy. He may be off on a detail or two, but for an earthling, he did a bang-up job."
"And it works in reverse too, you know," said Gabriel. "In that 'other' place there's a sort of upside down meritocracy--the badder the better!"
"What do you do on Sunday?" Tony asked
"Sunday is appointed for public and private worship, precinding all worldly employments and recreations, save for works of mercy and necessity" Gabriel solemnly intoned.
-viii-
"Hey, Gabe! All you angels look alike," said Tony. " Don’t you have any girly-girl angels?
"No, angels are sexless, said Gabriel.
"Does that mean you don’t have...well, uh....you can’t, you know, do it?"
"Do it?" Gabriel asked.
"Don’t you dudes know plain English?" Tony said, turning testy.
"We’re doing the best we can," said Gabriel. "I’m afraid the universal translator is off-line at the moment."
"How do you communicate when you’re sent on a mission down under?" Tony asked.
"We have a heavenly Berlitz school to bone up on conversational English, Coptic, Sumerian, Sanskrit, Akkadian, Hebrew, Linear B, Church Latin, French, Hindi, Mandarin, and so on. But a crash-course doesn’t cover all the choice colloquialisms."
"Oh, I think I know what he’s getting at," said Michael, blushing slightly. "It’s a question of protocol. There was an old case involving the sons of God taking the daughters of men to wife, but those were fallen angels, you understand!"
"I’m getting a little thirsty," Tony said. "Maybe you guys could fetch me a drink from the river"
-ix-
Having given his angelic escort the slip, Tony made a b-line for Mainstreet. When Michael and Gabriel caught up with him, he had set up a concession stand where he was hawking gold bricks.
Gabriel took one look at the sign--brick sale: buy one, get one free--and asked, "Buy one with what? No one has money in heaven!"
"Now you put your finger on the problem!" Tony exclaimed. "Everybody here is broke, plain broke. The management keeps all of you dumb schmucks in the poor-house!"
"I’m afraid you’re rather missing the main point," said Michael. "We don’t have money because we don’t need money. Everything here is simply priceless!"
"That don’t make no sense!" Tony growled. "If it’s free it’s worthless! What do you take me for? Some sort a chump? I’m nobody’s fool! You can’t dupe me with your pie-in-the-sky platitudes. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Every man has his price!"
"What we take you for is very much the question of the hour," said Gabriel. "I understand that new arrivals are often a bit befuddled by the razzle-dazzle novelty of it all, but if I didn’t know better I’d almost suspect that you didn’t belong here at all! At the very least we may need to schedule you for some nouthetic counseling!"
"Michael, any word yet from the higher ups?" Gabriel then asked.
"The com-system is still down," Michael answered.
Just then Abdiel descended from on high, with a pair of seraphic bar-bouncers at his side.
"You're quite correct, brother Gabriel," Abdiel said. "He doesn’t belong here."
"Well, that explains a lot," Michael said, "but why were we not informed?"
"Information was made available on a need-to-know basis," Abdiel. "Entrapment only works if affected parties are kept in the dark. We’ll be holding a press conference shortly."
Then Abdiel gestured to the seraphim, who seized Tony, arm-in-arm, hauled him over to the ledge of the New Jerusalem, and threw him over the side. Tony let out a great wailing cry as he sank like a rock.
This happened many years ago, or so I’m told, but since the bottomless pit is--well--bottomless, I reckon that Tony is still falling to this day.
For some six thousand years and counting, the Old Serpent had been plotting his revenge, prodding and testing for any chink into which to pry a curly horn or forked tail. Yet heaven’s defensive perimeter proved to be impregnable--until recently, that is. But Bill Gates, after a long and lucrative career, and despite the best in life-extension technology, had lately suffered a change of address from his waterfront estate to a little patch of Tophet.
Actually, his new address was, for a time, a matter of no small disputation. He was originally assigned to the eighth circle of pimps and seducers owing to his patronage of assorted homosexual causes. But after vigorous plea-bargaining between the High Council of Pandemonium and his old legal team--which naturally enough shared the very same Zip Code--he was able to cop a plea for lodgings in the fourth circle of hell, in the company of the merely avaricious, in exchange for a new software program.
The new program was designed to infect heaven’s mainframe with a virus which would erase the names in the book of life and inscribe the names of the damned in their place.
However, heaven’s firewall was so effective that the actual extent of the damage was both quite circumscribed and short-lived. Why, I’ve even been told by one anonymous, but high-placed source, that this was a celestial sting-operation: the hellish host were allowed to hack into a low-security system in order to smoke out the core insurgents and keep infernal unrest at acceptable levels of mayhem and madness--lest Gehenna go to hell in a hand-basket.
And, indeed, shortly after this fiendishly clever exercise in ID theft was caught and prosecuted, Mr. Gates was promptly transferred from the fourth circle to a lower rung of the eighth circle, among the common thieves, well below the pimps and seducers.
-ii-
One temporary consequence of the sting operation is that a few smalltimers like Tony Romano did enjoy a brief layover in Abraham’s bosom--if "enjoy" is quite the right word--before their final destination. Last thing Tony remembers was being turned into a human fountain after he got caught using marked cards in a friendly little game of five card stud. Next thing he knows, he finds himself queued up in the customs line of Zion International Airport.
"Anything to declare?" said a beefy looking cherub in a blue uniform. Too flustered by it all to answer, Tony stood there, slack-jawed. The cherub motioned Tony to go through a portal--setting off a metal detector.
"All firearms must be checked at the front desk," the cherub said rather brusquely, pointing to a sign over his head. Fishing a forty-five out of his sock, Tony meekly handed over the weapon.
"Pistols in the blue bin, Uzis in the black bin!" the cherub snapped. After disposing of his weapon, Tony waited for further instructions.
"Okay, time to strip," said the cherub, matter-of-factly.
"Strip?" said Tony. "You mean, strip search--right here in front of God and everybody? I got rights, ya know!" he snarled in his shrill Chicago accent.
The cherub starred at him uncomprehendingly, then shoved a frilly white robe in his face. "Changing rooms are over there. Oh, and don’t forget your sandals!"
-iii-
As Tony exited the airport, he was greeted by Michael and Gabriel. "Mr. Romano," said Michael, extending his hand. "Welcome to the New Jerusalem."
Nervously shaking his hand, Tony said, "How come you know my name? Are you with the FBI or something?"
"I’m not quite sure what you have in mind," said Gabriel. "We’re members of the orientation committee. Every newcomer is assigned a tour guide for the first few days to get his bearings. Heaven is a big place, you know!"
Tony responded with a tight smile. Not for a moment was he taken in by their holier-than-thou airs. Hey, he wasn’t some babe in the woods. He’d been around the block a few times. Heaven was just another scam. Their unctuous demeanor was only a pious front. Every angel had an angle, and the trick was for him to keep up appearances while getting them to drop the pose.
-iv-
"So, Mr. Romano," said Gabriel, "what’s the first thing you’d like to see?"
"Wasn’t there something about gold-paved streets and pearl-studded gates?" Tony asked. "Or was that just a fairy tale?"
"Not at all," said Michael. "Let’s take you to the main entrance."
Michael emitted a whistle in acuti, and a taxi immediately pulled up to the curb. "To the pearly gates," said Gabriel.
The taxi dropped them off at the curb of New Eden Municipal Park. Birds were singing. Lions and lambs were playfully chasing one another. The river flowed with milk and honey. The trees were abud with golden apples and gemstones.
"Pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say?" said Gabriel.
"I guess so," said Tony. "But just think what a developer could do with a lot like this? You could put the condos over here, a shopping center with a Wall-Mart and MacDonalds over there."
They continued their stroll through the park until they reached the main gate, encrusted with pearls. Tony was temporarily bedazzled, but then said, "Where are the cops and the security cameras?"
His question drew blank stare. "What do you mean," Michael asked?
"How do you keep folks from stealing the goodies?"
"This is heaven, remember?" said Gabriel, shaking his dreadlocks.
"Oh, yeah, how could I ever forget," said Tony.
-v-
"Tony, how’d you like to attend a concern tonight?" Gabriel asked.
"I guess so," said Tony. "Who’s on the bill?"
"Vivaldi has written a brand-new Gloria for the occasion. I’m doing the trumpet accompaniment," said Gabriel. "And Uriel will play a Handel harp concerto. Ever since Handel got his sight back he’s been composing at a furious pace. Mendelssohn is working overtime just to keep apace!"
"And Raphael even commissioned Bach to compose a solo cantata for the occasion," Michael said. "If you think Joan Sutherland has a swell high C, just wait till you hear Raphael’s C above high C!"
-vi-
Tony stumbled out of the concerned hall, bleary-eyed and blinking in the bright light. "I thought you said this was an evening concert?" Tony exclaimed.
"Oh, in heaven, night-time words are just a figure of speech," Michael explained.
"Your attention seemed to drift a bit half-way through the harp concerto," said Gabriel.
"It’s not the kind of music I’m used to," Tony said. "Hey there, Mickey. Does Peggy Lee ever sing here?"
"I think she’s in the ‘other’ place," said Michael, looking down.
"Too bad!" Tony exclaimed. "I don’t suppose you ever heard her sing, ‘I got it bad, and that ain’t good?’?"
"Can’t say I have," Michael said.
"Me neither!" said Gabriel.
"Well, you gotta admit she had a great pair a-knockers and gams," said Tony, jabbing Gabriel in the ribs and winking at Michael.
"The angels exchanged quizzical stares," so Tony kept on winking and making hourglass gestures with his hands.
"Mr. Romano," Michael said. "Your eye is twitching. Do you have a speck in your eye, or is that just a natural tick?
"Are you angels always so serious?" Tony asked, in a tone of exasperation.
"To the contrary," said Gabriel, "we have a highly developed sense of humor. You just need to get to know us a little better. Why, only last week, Tobit told a hilarious joke about Calabi-Yau space!"
"If you don’t mind," said Tony, "I’d like to be alone for a while."
-vii-
Tony found his way back to the garden. When no one was looking, he began to pry pearls free from the gate with a box-cutter he smuggled out of the airport. He was so immersed in his work that he didn’t hear Gabriel glide up from behind and tap him on the shoulder.
He spun around, pearls flying every which way.
"Holy smokes!" he exclaimed. "You near ‘bout scared me to death, sneaking up like that!"
"Pardon me for asking," said Michael," but why are you chipping away at the pearls?"
"Well, it’s like...uh...like them pearls were a little...a little smudgy--yes, smudgy, that’s what they were! And so I was just trying to polish 'em up a bit before gluing 'em back, you see!" said Tony.
"That’s very considerate of you," said Michael, "but there’s really no need. We have cleaning crews to dust and polish."
"You mean," said Tony, you have to go work even after you get to heaven?"
"Naturally!" Michael exclaimed. "Of course, union rules exempt the cherubim and seraphim from the more menial tasks, but the heavenly host keeps everything spick-and-span on a rotational basis: Thrones on Mondays, Dominations on Tuesdays, Virtues on Wednesdays, Powers on Thursdays, Principalities on Fridays, as well as angels and archangels on Saturdays."
"Sounds undemocratic to me!" Tony exclaimed.
"Didn’t you ever read Dionysius? I guess the public school system must be even worse than it’s rumored to be! Why, the division of labor is all laid out in his book on the Celestial Hierarchy. He may be off on a detail or two, but for an earthling, he did a bang-up job."
"And it works in reverse too, you know," said Gabriel. "In that 'other' place there's a sort of upside down meritocracy--the badder the better!"
"What do you do on Sunday?" Tony asked
"Sunday is appointed for public and private worship, precinding all worldly employments and recreations, save for works of mercy and necessity" Gabriel solemnly intoned.
-viii-
"Hey, Gabe! All you angels look alike," said Tony. " Don’t you have any girly-girl angels?
"No, angels are sexless, said Gabriel.
"Does that mean you don’t have...well, uh....you can’t, you know, do it?"
"Do it?" Gabriel asked.
"Don’t you dudes know plain English?" Tony said, turning testy.
"We’re doing the best we can," said Gabriel. "I’m afraid the universal translator is off-line at the moment."
"How do you communicate when you’re sent on a mission down under?" Tony asked.
"We have a heavenly Berlitz school to bone up on conversational English, Coptic, Sumerian, Sanskrit, Akkadian, Hebrew, Linear B, Church Latin, French, Hindi, Mandarin, and so on. But a crash-course doesn’t cover all the choice colloquialisms."
"Oh, I think I know what he’s getting at," said Michael, blushing slightly. "It’s a question of protocol. There was an old case involving the sons of God taking the daughters of men to wife, but those were fallen angels, you understand!"
"I’m getting a little thirsty," Tony said. "Maybe you guys could fetch me a drink from the river"
-ix-
Having given his angelic escort the slip, Tony made a b-line for Mainstreet. When Michael and Gabriel caught up with him, he had set up a concession stand where he was hawking gold bricks.
Gabriel took one look at the sign--brick sale: buy one, get one free--and asked, "Buy one with what? No one has money in heaven!"
"Now you put your finger on the problem!" Tony exclaimed. "Everybody here is broke, plain broke. The management keeps all of you dumb schmucks in the poor-house!"
"I’m afraid you’re rather missing the main point," said Michael. "We don’t have money because we don’t need money. Everything here is simply priceless!"
"That don’t make no sense!" Tony growled. "If it’s free it’s worthless! What do you take me for? Some sort a chump? I’m nobody’s fool! You can’t dupe me with your pie-in-the-sky platitudes. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Every man has his price!"
"What we take you for is very much the question of the hour," said Gabriel. "I understand that new arrivals are often a bit befuddled by the razzle-dazzle novelty of it all, but if I didn’t know better I’d almost suspect that you didn’t belong here at all! At the very least we may need to schedule you for some nouthetic counseling!"
"Michael, any word yet from the higher ups?" Gabriel then asked.
"The com-system is still down," Michael answered.
Just then Abdiel descended from on high, with a pair of seraphic bar-bouncers at his side.
"You're quite correct, brother Gabriel," Abdiel said. "He doesn’t belong here."
"Well, that explains a lot," Michael said, "but why were we not informed?"
"Information was made available on a need-to-know basis," Abdiel. "Entrapment only works if affected parties are kept in the dark. We’ll be holding a press conference shortly."
Then Abdiel gestured to the seraphim, who seized Tony, arm-in-arm, hauled him over to the ledge of the New Jerusalem, and threw him over the side. Tony let out a great wailing cry as he sank like a rock.
This happened many years ago, or so I’m told, but since the bottomless pit is--well--bottomless, I reckon that Tony is still falling to this day.
Painted Devil
-i-
"Hey, Jacobi," Malak said.
"Captain, what’s up?" Jacobi said, answering his cell phone.
"There’s been another murder. Check it out!"
-ii-
"What have we got?" Jacobi says to the coroner.
"According to the wallet, this is the late Martin Tours."
"What else?"
"Just like the other four," said the coroner, pulling back the victim’s shirt. "See ‘Legion’ carved into the chest?"
"Same MO. But the way the papers have been playing up ‘The Legion Killer,’ could be a copy-cat murder as well."
"After I get back to the lab I’ll page you if I turn anything up."
"Anything else?"
"This is not the primary crime scene. The victim was executed elsewhere and dumped in the alley to cover his tracks."
"Also consistent with the ‘The Legion Killer.’ Well, I’ll go knock on doors."
-iii-
"Pastor Morgenstern--I saw your name on the plaque outside," said Jacobi.
"Yes, that’s right," he said, shaking Jacobi's hand. And you are..."
"Inspector Jacobi," he said, flashing his badge. "I’m a homicide detective."
"Ah, this must be about the crime scene down the street," said Morgenstern.
"Sorry to interrupt."
"No problem! You boys continue with your singing while Inspector Jacobi and I have a little chat."
"Have you ever seen this man before?" showing him a photo of the victim, as the choir went about rehearsing Mendelssohn's "Es wird ein Stern aus Jacob" in the background.
"Can’t say that I have. "What’s his name?"
"Michael Tours."
"Doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry I can’t be more helpful."
"Maybe you can. Does the name of ‘Legion’ mean anything to you?"
"’Legion’ was the name of a demoniac on whom our Lord performed an exorcism. Does this have anything to do with the ‘Legion Killer’?"
"I see you’ve been following the news."
"To be honest, I don’t have time to keep up with all the headlines--but word gets around. I get most of my info from the parishioners".
"Still, if the killer took the name of a...of a...what was that again?"
"Of a demoniac."
"Yes, of a demoniac," Jacobi continued, "then it might have some ritual angle. That could be helpful."
"What were the names of the other victims?"
"Max, Dennis, Diomedes, and Steven."
"That reminds me of something, but I can’t quite place it at the moment."
"Here’s my card. If you remember, give me a call."
-iv-
"Ah, Inspector Jacobi. I guess you got me message. But you didn’t have to make a special trip."
"No problem. I’m not finished canvassing the neighborhood. So what did you have to tell me?"
"Well, this may only be a coincidence, but the five names you gave me correspond to the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus."
"The Seven Sleepers of...what?"
"It’s a feast-day, based on an old legend. During the reign of the Emperor Decius, seven saintly young men hid in a cave to escape imperial persecution. The authorities walled up the entrance. But when the cave was unsealed several centuries later, they walked out alive—not having aged a day."
"What were the other two names?"
"Antonio and Constantine."
"So, assuming that the killer is following this blueprint, that would leave two more victims--by the names of Antonio and Constantine."
"Looks like you need to spend some time in the phone book."
"I wish I had some cue as to when he was going to strike next."
"When were the five victims killed?"
"Let’s see," said Jacobi, flipping through his notebook, "Mon-day...Tuesday...Wednesday...Thursday...Friday."
"So he’s killing a victim for each day of the week."
"And in that order,which leaves Saturday and Sunday. What’s the connection?"
"Off-hand, I can’t say."
-v-
"Jacobi," answering the phone.
"Yes, this is Pastor Morgenstern."
"Good to hear from you."
"I was thinking some more about the days of the week. The only connection I can see is numerical...the seven sleepers of Asia, the seven days of the week."
"Well, that’s another coincidence."
"May be more than a coincidence, especially if, as you say, the murders have a ritual angle."
"How so?"
"Seven is a highly significant figure in Judeo-Christian numerology: the seven-day crea-tion, the seven-day week, the seventh day of rest, the sabbatical year, the seven weeks from Passover to Pentecost, the seven devils cast out of Mary Magdalene, the sevenfold sprinkling of blood, the seven-pronged Menorah, the seven-day feast of Tabernacles and unleavened bread, Enoch as the seventh from Adam, the year of Jubilee, New Year on the seventh month. The Book of Revelation is chock-full of sevens."
-vi-
"What have we got?" Jacobi said to the coroner?
"According to the wallet, this is the late Antonio Padua."
"Number six...that leaves one more to go."
"How do you mean?"
"This is a serial killer with seven designated targets."
"Then it should be possible to catch him before he kills again."
"I’m afraid it’s not that easy. I've only got first names, not last names. Have any idea many ‘Antonios’ live in a city this size?"
"I see your problem."
-vii-
"Pastor Morgenstern, can I come in?" Jacobi asked, poking his head into the study.
"Why, of course! Any break in the case?"
"I don’t know. I’ve been having a lot of bad dreams lately."
"What kind of dreams?"
"In my dreams I’m being shadowed by a seven-headed, seven-horned monster."
"What does its face look like?"
"Can’t tell. When I turn around I only see the back of its head."
"The case is getting to you. That’s only natural."
"But there’s more."
"Go on."
"I also see it during the day...in the rearview mirror, or washroom mirror, or storefront window. But when I turn my head it vanishes from view."
"Do you see its face then?"
"Just a fleeting glimpse."
"What did it look like? Some diabolical fiend?"
"No, almost angelic. I mean, the face itself, if you leave out the horns and all, could pass for one of your choirboys. A little older, but that same innocent demeanor."
"I guess that makes sense. The best way to beguile is to be without guile."
"But what do you make of it all?"
"Well, that is uncanny--that’s for sure. But given the occultic aroma of the case, it’s not altogether surprising. You stand astride two worlds--of sense and spirit."
"Either that or an undigested apple-dumpling!"
-viii-
"Morgenstern here" he said, answering the phone.
"It’s Jacobi again. I've had another nightmare."
"Was it like the others?" Morgenstern asked.
"Yes, except that this time I was able to make out more background detail."
"What did you see?"
"It looked like a boarded up old church. You know, Gothic arches…stained glass windows, but broken and cobwebby."
"Anything stand out?"
"There was a sign...hard to remember now...something like St. Elizabeth."
"That’s the name of an old abandoned church in Chinatown."
"Funny, I don’t recall seeing anything like that down there."
"That’s because it was painted over a long time ago and turned into restaurant, which, I think, went out of business just recently. In any event, you should check out your premo-nition."
-ix-
"Sir, are you hurt?" Jacobi asked, as he untied a bound-and-gagged man inside St. Eliza-beth.
"I’ll be fine now that you arrived," he said.
"May I ask you name?"
"Steve...Steven Nichols."
"This is Inspector Jacobi," he said, dialing his cellphone. "Send a squad car and ambu-lance to the Fortune Cookie restaurant on the corner of Broadway and Easy Street. Mr. Nichols, you stay here while I step outside for a moment."
"Hey you--freeze!" Jacobi shouted, drawing his service revolver and pointing right at a jaywalker whose face resembled the face in his visions.
-ix-
"Harry Hesper," Jacobi said, looking across the table from the suspect in the interrogation room. "According to my file here, you’re a seminary drop-out."
"That's right."
"Was serial murder part of the curriculum?"
"You might call it an elective course" Hesper said, smirking.
"So why'd you drop out? Loose your faith?"
"No, I found my calling."
"I see. Is this another one of those Antichrist conspiracies to destroy the world as we know it?"
"No, to save the world."
"Saving by killing?"
"A necessary evil."
"How so?"
"In the Koran it is written that seven sleepers portend the end of the world."
"But wasn’t that centuries ago? They're all dead and buried by now."
"No, they’re immortal. That’s the point of the story. They can’t die of natural causes."
"How'd you find them, anyway?"
"Seven angels appeared to me in a vision."
"But what’s the connection between the seven sleepers and the seven days of the week?"
"It’s all goes back to the mystery of the seven stars."
"The mystery of the seven stars?"
"Yes, the mystery of the seven stars. If you read in Revelations, the seven sleepers are the seven stars...as well as the seven angels of the seven churches."
"That's all there?" Jacobi asked?
"Well, not the part about the seven sleepers--not in so many words, exactly, but John the Revelator lived in Ephesus, and addressed his prophecy to the church of Ephesus…oh, and the temple of Artemis was one of the seven wonders of the world. The number seven--that's the key!"
"But what’s that got to do with the days of the week?"
"Isn’t it obvious?" Hesper exclaimed. "The days of the week were named after the seven planets--Monday for the moon, Tuesday for Mars, Wednesday for Mercury, Thursday for Jupiter, Friday for Venus, Saturday for Saturn, and Sunday for the sun."
"Okay then, what now?"
"Now the world comes to an end. I failed! Thanks to you, I failed! You kept me from completing my mission!" Hesper cried. "The sun will be black as sackcloth, the moon blood-red, and the stars shall fall from heaven."
-x-
"So, what happens now," Morgenstern asked, standing in the sanctuary. "Will he face the death penalty?"
"He won't be around that long," Jacobi answered.
"How come?"
"He suffered a seizure while in custody."
"What was the cause?"
"A head-scan revealed brain cancer. So much for that hokum and bunkum about angelic apparitions!"
"Well, it’s been a pleasure getting to know you. You’re welcome to stop in any time. Why not pick up a program on the way out?"
In the narthex, Jacobi pauses to peruse a program, begins to pocket a copy, then decides to put it back on the table. In the distance the choir is rehearsing the "Dies Irae" from Mozart's Requiem Mass.
Getting into is car, Jacobi switches the radio on as he drives out of the lot. "...the Packers beat the Red Sox 32-16. Tomorrow’s forecast: clear and sunny. Oh, and that reminds me--for all you amateur astronomy buffs, we’ve got a rare conjunction the next few days with a solar eclipse, followed by a lunar eclipse, followed by a meteor shower. And now for a message from our sponsor at Ace Auto Body-Shop..."
"Hey, Jacobi," Malak said.
"Captain, what’s up?" Jacobi said, answering his cell phone.
"There’s been another murder. Check it out!"
-ii-
"What have we got?" Jacobi says to the coroner.
"According to the wallet, this is the late Martin Tours."
"What else?"
"Just like the other four," said the coroner, pulling back the victim’s shirt. "See ‘Legion’ carved into the chest?"
"Same MO. But the way the papers have been playing up ‘The Legion Killer,’ could be a copy-cat murder as well."
"After I get back to the lab I’ll page you if I turn anything up."
"Anything else?"
"This is not the primary crime scene. The victim was executed elsewhere and dumped in the alley to cover his tracks."
"Also consistent with the ‘The Legion Killer.’ Well, I’ll go knock on doors."
-iii-
"Pastor Morgenstern--I saw your name on the plaque outside," said Jacobi.
"Yes, that’s right," he said, shaking Jacobi's hand. And you are..."
"Inspector Jacobi," he said, flashing his badge. "I’m a homicide detective."
"Ah, this must be about the crime scene down the street," said Morgenstern.
"Sorry to interrupt."
"No problem! You boys continue with your singing while Inspector Jacobi and I have a little chat."
"Have you ever seen this man before?" showing him a photo of the victim, as the choir went about rehearsing Mendelssohn's "Es wird ein Stern aus Jacob" in the background.
"Can’t say that I have. "What’s his name?"
"Michael Tours."
"Doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry I can’t be more helpful."
"Maybe you can. Does the name of ‘Legion’ mean anything to you?"
"’Legion’ was the name of a demoniac on whom our Lord performed an exorcism. Does this have anything to do with the ‘Legion Killer’?"
"I see you’ve been following the news."
"To be honest, I don’t have time to keep up with all the headlines--but word gets around. I get most of my info from the parishioners".
"Still, if the killer took the name of a...of a...what was that again?"
"Of a demoniac."
"Yes, of a demoniac," Jacobi continued, "then it might have some ritual angle. That could be helpful."
"What were the names of the other victims?"
"Max, Dennis, Diomedes, and Steven."
"That reminds me of something, but I can’t quite place it at the moment."
"Here’s my card. If you remember, give me a call."
-iv-
"Ah, Inspector Jacobi. I guess you got me message. But you didn’t have to make a special trip."
"No problem. I’m not finished canvassing the neighborhood. So what did you have to tell me?"
"Well, this may only be a coincidence, but the five names you gave me correspond to the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus."
"The Seven Sleepers of...what?"
"It’s a feast-day, based on an old legend. During the reign of the Emperor Decius, seven saintly young men hid in a cave to escape imperial persecution. The authorities walled up the entrance. But when the cave was unsealed several centuries later, they walked out alive—not having aged a day."
"What were the other two names?"
"Antonio and Constantine."
"So, assuming that the killer is following this blueprint, that would leave two more victims--by the names of Antonio and Constantine."
"Looks like you need to spend some time in the phone book."
"I wish I had some cue as to when he was going to strike next."
"When were the five victims killed?"
"Let’s see," said Jacobi, flipping through his notebook, "Mon-day...Tuesday...Wednesday...Thursday...Friday."
"So he’s killing a victim for each day of the week."
"And in that order,which leaves Saturday and Sunday. What’s the connection?"
"Off-hand, I can’t say."
-v-
"Jacobi," answering the phone.
"Yes, this is Pastor Morgenstern."
"Good to hear from you."
"I was thinking some more about the days of the week. The only connection I can see is numerical...the seven sleepers of Asia, the seven days of the week."
"Well, that’s another coincidence."
"May be more than a coincidence, especially if, as you say, the murders have a ritual angle."
"How so?"
"Seven is a highly significant figure in Judeo-Christian numerology: the seven-day crea-tion, the seven-day week, the seventh day of rest, the sabbatical year, the seven weeks from Passover to Pentecost, the seven devils cast out of Mary Magdalene, the sevenfold sprinkling of blood, the seven-pronged Menorah, the seven-day feast of Tabernacles and unleavened bread, Enoch as the seventh from Adam, the year of Jubilee, New Year on the seventh month. The Book of Revelation is chock-full of sevens."
-vi-
"What have we got?" Jacobi said to the coroner?
"According to the wallet, this is the late Antonio Padua."
"Number six...that leaves one more to go."
"How do you mean?"
"This is a serial killer with seven designated targets."
"Then it should be possible to catch him before he kills again."
"I’m afraid it’s not that easy. I've only got first names, not last names. Have any idea many ‘Antonios’ live in a city this size?"
"I see your problem."
-vii-
"Pastor Morgenstern, can I come in?" Jacobi asked, poking his head into the study.
"Why, of course! Any break in the case?"
"I don’t know. I’ve been having a lot of bad dreams lately."
"What kind of dreams?"
"In my dreams I’m being shadowed by a seven-headed, seven-horned monster."
"What does its face look like?"
"Can’t tell. When I turn around I only see the back of its head."
"The case is getting to you. That’s only natural."
"But there’s more."
"Go on."
"I also see it during the day...in the rearview mirror, or washroom mirror, or storefront window. But when I turn my head it vanishes from view."
"Do you see its face then?"
"Just a fleeting glimpse."
"What did it look like? Some diabolical fiend?"
"No, almost angelic. I mean, the face itself, if you leave out the horns and all, could pass for one of your choirboys. A little older, but that same innocent demeanor."
"I guess that makes sense. The best way to beguile is to be without guile."
"But what do you make of it all?"
"Well, that is uncanny--that’s for sure. But given the occultic aroma of the case, it’s not altogether surprising. You stand astride two worlds--of sense and spirit."
"Either that or an undigested apple-dumpling!"
-viii-
"Morgenstern here" he said, answering the phone.
"It’s Jacobi again. I've had another nightmare."
"Was it like the others?" Morgenstern asked.
"Yes, except that this time I was able to make out more background detail."
"What did you see?"
"It looked like a boarded up old church. You know, Gothic arches…stained glass windows, but broken and cobwebby."
"Anything stand out?"
"There was a sign...hard to remember now...something like St. Elizabeth."
"That’s the name of an old abandoned church in Chinatown."
"Funny, I don’t recall seeing anything like that down there."
"That’s because it was painted over a long time ago and turned into restaurant, which, I think, went out of business just recently. In any event, you should check out your premo-nition."
-ix-
"Sir, are you hurt?" Jacobi asked, as he untied a bound-and-gagged man inside St. Eliza-beth.
"I’ll be fine now that you arrived," he said.
"May I ask you name?"
"Steve...Steven Nichols."
"This is Inspector Jacobi," he said, dialing his cellphone. "Send a squad car and ambu-lance to the Fortune Cookie restaurant on the corner of Broadway and Easy Street. Mr. Nichols, you stay here while I step outside for a moment."
"Hey you--freeze!" Jacobi shouted, drawing his service revolver and pointing right at a jaywalker whose face resembled the face in his visions.
-ix-
"Harry Hesper," Jacobi said, looking across the table from the suspect in the interrogation room. "According to my file here, you’re a seminary drop-out."
"That's right."
"Was serial murder part of the curriculum?"
"You might call it an elective course" Hesper said, smirking.
"So why'd you drop out? Loose your faith?"
"No, I found my calling."
"I see. Is this another one of those Antichrist conspiracies to destroy the world as we know it?"
"No, to save the world."
"Saving by killing?"
"A necessary evil."
"How so?"
"In the Koran it is written that seven sleepers portend the end of the world."
"But wasn’t that centuries ago? They're all dead and buried by now."
"No, they’re immortal. That’s the point of the story. They can’t die of natural causes."
"How'd you find them, anyway?"
"Seven angels appeared to me in a vision."
"But what’s the connection between the seven sleepers and the seven days of the week?"
"It’s all goes back to the mystery of the seven stars."
"The mystery of the seven stars?"
"Yes, the mystery of the seven stars. If you read in Revelations, the seven sleepers are the seven stars...as well as the seven angels of the seven churches."
"That's all there?" Jacobi asked?
"Well, not the part about the seven sleepers--not in so many words, exactly, but John the Revelator lived in Ephesus, and addressed his prophecy to the church of Ephesus…oh, and the temple of Artemis was one of the seven wonders of the world. The number seven--that's the key!"
"But what’s that got to do with the days of the week?"
"Isn’t it obvious?" Hesper exclaimed. "The days of the week were named after the seven planets--Monday for the moon, Tuesday for Mars, Wednesday for Mercury, Thursday for Jupiter, Friday for Venus, Saturday for Saturn, and Sunday for the sun."
"Okay then, what now?"
"Now the world comes to an end. I failed! Thanks to you, I failed! You kept me from completing my mission!" Hesper cried. "The sun will be black as sackcloth, the moon blood-red, and the stars shall fall from heaven."
-x-
"So, what happens now," Morgenstern asked, standing in the sanctuary. "Will he face the death penalty?"
"He won't be around that long," Jacobi answered.
"How come?"
"He suffered a seizure while in custody."
"What was the cause?"
"A head-scan revealed brain cancer. So much for that hokum and bunkum about angelic apparitions!"
"Well, it’s been a pleasure getting to know you. You’re welcome to stop in any time. Why not pick up a program on the way out?"
In the narthex, Jacobi pauses to peruse a program, begins to pocket a copy, then decides to put it back on the table. In the distance the choir is rehearsing the "Dies Irae" from Mozart's Requiem Mass.
Getting into is car, Jacobi switches the radio on as he drives out of the lot. "...the Packers beat the Red Sox 32-16. Tomorrow’s forecast: clear and sunny. Oh, and that reminds me--for all you amateur astronomy buffs, we’ve got a rare conjunction the next few days with a solar eclipse, followed by a lunar eclipse, followed by a meteor shower. And now for a message from our sponsor at Ace Auto Body-Shop..."
The Pearly Gates
-i-
Roxanne, or "Roxy," as all her friends knew her, was more concerned about her eyeliner than the yellow line as she swerved into the opposing lane. Approaching the tunnel from the other end was a sleepy semi-truck driver.
Roxy was bound for Vegas, eager to see her name up in lights. Marilyn Monroe she wasn’t, but with a bit of judicious padding and truckloads of steely determination, she was sure the world would be bowled over by her irresistible charm.
But somewhere between the yellow line and the dark tunnel, her aspirations to greatness took an unexpected turn.
-ii-
Next thing she knew, she is standing, dazed and unsteady, with singed dress and tangled hair, in a washed-out no-man’s land, like a TV screen with the contrast knob turned to zero.
After a few moments, the fluffy mist began to dissipate, and in the near distance she saw a sparkling city, looking like Vegas, only bigger and brighter, with more moreness than ever before.
"Well I’ll be damned!" she said, bowled-over by it all. As she was gazing at this great glittery bauble in the sky, a white-suited, well-tanned gentleman approached her:
"My dear Roxanne," he said, in a mellifluous foreign accent, "your limousine awaits you!"
"How do you know my name?"
"Why, your reputation precedes you!"
"Oh, you silver-tongued devil you!" she exclaimed, blushing, giggling, and batting her eyelids all at once. "But did I really make it to the place upstairs?"
"Well, ever since the Copernican Revolution, up-and-down is pretty relative. But you might call this is a dream come true!" He then extended his arm, which she took, and walked with him to the stretched limo.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like what’s-his-name in Fantasy Island?"
"It wouldn’t be the first time," he answered, with a wry smile and a twinkle in the eye.
-iii-
Inside the limo an angel choir was playing on the radio. Mr. Roarke, or whatever his name really was, offered her a glass of bubbly. Roxy couldn’t tell if the car was driving, gliding or floating in mid-air. When they arrived at the Ritz hotel, Roarke escorted her to the express elevator.
"Where am I going? she asked?
"The penthouse suite has been reserved for you," Roarke answered.
"All that for me?" she said?
"Is it not written, ‘in my Father’s house are many mansions’?" Roarke said.
The glass elevator seemed to ascend forever as they passed through the pink, puffy clouds on the way up. In the suite itself, a small army of beefy, bare-chested manservants tended to her every whim.
That night she stayed in the suite, to clean up and rest up after her accident. She took a champagne bath in her solid-gold bathtub and went straight to bed.
Combing out her hair in the morning, she found out that this was no ordinary comb, but a magic comb with different settings. Depending on which setting she chose, the comb would make her hair come out looking like Farah Fawcett, Maureen O’Hara, Jean Harlow, Veronica Lake, or Marie Antoinette.
She also discovered a pair of magic dance-slippers with several different settings that made her dance as well as Ginger Rogers, Eleanor Powell, Cyd Charisse, and Margot Fonteyn.
-iv-
The next day she went to the Monte Carlo casino. Roxy was given a million bucks worth of chips as seed money. Every hand she was dwelt was a royal flush. Every throw of the dice came up sixes. Every yank of the one-armed bandit hit the jackpot.
On the first night alone it took a dozen wheelbarrows just to haul all the loot back to the penthouse suite. After the first week, a whole floor of the hotel was set aside to store her winnings.
-v-
The day after that she went to Bloomingdale’s. Roxy was issued a Bloomingdale card with an unlimited credit line of credit. It took another dozen wheelbarrows to haul all the diamond rings and emerald earrings and jade bracelets and pearly necklaces and gold brooches back to the penthouse suite, not to mention three semi-trucks to transport all the fur coats.
Because she couldn’t bring herself to choose between the white mink coat, the brown mink coat, and the black mink coat, or between the mink coat with chinchilla trimming and the chinchilla coat with mink trimming, she bought the whole rack. Fortunately for her, the walk-in closet the size of an airplane hanger.
Due to rear-round climate control, the air outside stayed at 70 degrees day and night. So she had to lower the thermostat in her suite just to get a chance to wear her mink and leopard coats.
-vi-
The day after that she went to the Chez Piggerie restaurant. There she was delighted to find that every gourmet dishe had zero carbs. She could gobble down a twelve-course meal and never gain an ounce. What was more, she could swig as much bubbly as she liked and never wake up with a hangover.
-vii-
The day after that she went to see Christian Dior. Instead of taking her measurements and then tailoring a form-fitting dress, Dior handed her a catalogue from which she could simply pick out a slinky evening dress, and whatever dress she put on would magically conform her figure to the contours of Dolly Parton.
-viii-
The day after that, she went to the Sands, where she was invited onto the stage to do a concert. The microphone had ten different settings. Depending on which setting she chose, she would sound exactly like Julie Andrews, Marlene Dietrich, Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Peggy Lee, Loretta Lynn, Bernadette Peters, Barbara Streisand, Joan Sutherland, or Sarah Vaughn.
She even got to dance with Fred Astaire and Rudolf Valentino, as well as sing with Frank Sinatra and Evis Presley.
-ix-
The day after she went to see Richard Avalon. Here she sat to have her picture taken. She could have her picture taken with Cary Grant, Santa Claus, or Jesus. Well, it was really Jeffrey Hunter, but he looked just like Jesus is supposed to look.
She got to sit on Santa’s lap and ask for three wishes. And whatever she asked for was instantly granted by a band of winged chambermaids. "All this and Jesus too!" she shouted out loud!
Wherever she went she was feted like a diva, with an entourage of paparazzi and autograph-seekers. She was truly in seventh-heaven.
-x-
A week later she went back to the casino. Roxy was given another million bucks worth of chips as seed money. Every hand she was dwelt was a royal flush. Every throw of the dice came up sixes. Every yank of the one-armed bandit hit the jackpot.
-xi-
The day after that she went back to Bloomingdale’s. Once again it took a dozen wheelbarrows to haul all the diamond rings and emerald earrings and jade bracelets and pearly necklaces and gold brooches back to the penthouse suite, not to mention three semi-trucks to transport all the fur coats. The walk-in closet was getting to be a bit crowded.
-xii-
The day after that she went back to Chez Piggerie, where she had another twelve-course meal consisting of caviar, escargot and Brie for the appetizer; followed by fillet mignon, veal Marsala, venison, rack-of-lamb, Australian lobster, wild boar, king crab, grilled salmon, poached sole, scampi, and breast of pheasant; topped off with chocolate mousse, chocolate cake, chocolate ice cream, and French cheese for desert; and all washed down with five bottles of bubbly.
-xiii-
The day after that she went back to Dior to flip through the latest catalogue.
-xiv-
The day after that, she went back to the Sands to do another concert.
-xv-
The day after she went back to Avalon to do another photo shoot.
-xvi-
After a few more weeks of this, she summoned Mr. Roarke to her suite. "My dear Roxane," he said, "so very good to see you again."
"I wish I could say the same!"
"What’s the matter?"
"For the first few weeks I was afraid that living here was just too good to be true."
"And now?"
"And now I’m afraid that living here is just too true to be good."
"Whatevery do you mean?"
"Well, for one thing, I won the jackpot last night."
"What’s wrong with that?
"The lady sitting to my right won the jackpot as well, while the lady sitting to my left won the jackpot too! Where’s the fun in that?"
"I see your point!"
"Another thing--I can never turn off that damn angel choir! It plays day and night, everywhere I go--whether I'm in the limo, elevator, suite, casino, restaurant, nightclub…there's no off-switch. I can't even turn the volume down to get by beauty sleep!"
"Yes, I can see how irritating that might be."
"I feel like I’m caught between the devil and the deep blue see. If this is the best you can do, I’d rather be in that ‘other’ place, if you catch my drift."
"Where in hell do you think you've been all this time?"
Roxanne, or "Roxy," as all her friends knew her, was more concerned about her eyeliner than the yellow line as she swerved into the opposing lane. Approaching the tunnel from the other end was a sleepy semi-truck driver.
Roxy was bound for Vegas, eager to see her name up in lights. Marilyn Monroe she wasn’t, but with a bit of judicious padding and truckloads of steely determination, she was sure the world would be bowled over by her irresistible charm.
But somewhere between the yellow line and the dark tunnel, her aspirations to greatness took an unexpected turn.
-ii-
Next thing she knew, she is standing, dazed and unsteady, with singed dress and tangled hair, in a washed-out no-man’s land, like a TV screen with the contrast knob turned to zero.
After a few moments, the fluffy mist began to dissipate, and in the near distance she saw a sparkling city, looking like Vegas, only bigger and brighter, with more moreness than ever before.
"Well I’ll be damned!" she said, bowled-over by it all. As she was gazing at this great glittery bauble in the sky, a white-suited, well-tanned gentleman approached her:
"My dear Roxanne," he said, in a mellifluous foreign accent, "your limousine awaits you!"
"How do you know my name?"
"Why, your reputation precedes you!"
"Oh, you silver-tongued devil you!" she exclaimed, blushing, giggling, and batting her eyelids all at once. "But did I really make it to the place upstairs?"
"Well, ever since the Copernican Revolution, up-and-down is pretty relative. But you might call this is a dream come true!" He then extended his arm, which she took, and walked with him to the stretched limo.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like what’s-his-name in Fantasy Island?"
"It wouldn’t be the first time," he answered, with a wry smile and a twinkle in the eye.
-iii-
Inside the limo an angel choir was playing on the radio. Mr. Roarke, or whatever his name really was, offered her a glass of bubbly. Roxy couldn’t tell if the car was driving, gliding or floating in mid-air. When they arrived at the Ritz hotel, Roarke escorted her to the express elevator.
"Where am I going? she asked?
"The penthouse suite has been reserved for you," Roarke answered.
"All that for me?" she said?
"Is it not written, ‘in my Father’s house are many mansions’?" Roarke said.
The glass elevator seemed to ascend forever as they passed through the pink, puffy clouds on the way up. In the suite itself, a small army of beefy, bare-chested manservants tended to her every whim.
That night she stayed in the suite, to clean up and rest up after her accident. She took a champagne bath in her solid-gold bathtub and went straight to bed.
Combing out her hair in the morning, she found out that this was no ordinary comb, but a magic comb with different settings. Depending on which setting she chose, the comb would make her hair come out looking like Farah Fawcett, Maureen O’Hara, Jean Harlow, Veronica Lake, or Marie Antoinette.
She also discovered a pair of magic dance-slippers with several different settings that made her dance as well as Ginger Rogers, Eleanor Powell, Cyd Charisse, and Margot Fonteyn.
-iv-
The next day she went to the Monte Carlo casino. Roxy was given a million bucks worth of chips as seed money. Every hand she was dwelt was a royal flush. Every throw of the dice came up sixes. Every yank of the one-armed bandit hit the jackpot.
On the first night alone it took a dozen wheelbarrows just to haul all the loot back to the penthouse suite. After the first week, a whole floor of the hotel was set aside to store her winnings.
-v-
The day after that she went to Bloomingdale’s. Roxy was issued a Bloomingdale card with an unlimited credit line of credit. It took another dozen wheelbarrows to haul all the diamond rings and emerald earrings and jade bracelets and pearly necklaces and gold brooches back to the penthouse suite, not to mention three semi-trucks to transport all the fur coats.
Because she couldn’t bring herself to choose between the white mink coat, the brown mink coat, and the black mink coat, or between the mink coat with chinchilla trimming and the chinchilla coat with mink trimming, she bought the whole rack. Fortunately for her, the walk-in closet the size of an airplane hanger.
Due to rear-round climate control, the air outside stayed at 70 degrees day and night. So she had to lower the thermostat in her suite just to get a chance to wear her mink and leopard coats.
-vi-
The day after that she went to the Chez Piggerie restaurant. There she was delighted to find that every gourmet dishe had zero carbs. She could gobble down a twelve-course meal and never gain an ounce. What was more, she could swig as much bubbly as she liked and never wake up with a hangover.
-vii-
The day after that she went to see Christian Dior. Instead of taking her measurements and then tailoring a form-fitting dress, Dior handed her a catalogue from which she could simply pick out a slinky evening dress, and whatever dress she put on would magically conform her figure to the contours of Dolly Parton.
-viii-
The day after that, she went to the Sands, where she was invited onto the stage to do a concert. The microphone had ten different settings. Depending on which setting she chose, she would sound exactly like Julie Andrews, Marlene Dietrich, Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Peggy Lee, Loretta Lynn, Bernadette Peters, Barbara Streisand, Joan Sutherland, or Sarah Vaughn.
She even got to dance with Fred Astaire and Rudolf Valentino, as well as sing with Frank Sinatra and Evis Presley.
-ix-
The day after she went to see Richard Avalon. Here she sat to have her picture taken. She could have her picture taken with Cary Grant, Santa Claus, or Jesus. Well, it was really Jeffrey Hunter, but he looked just like Jesus is supposed to look.
She got to sit on Santa’s lap and ask for three wishes. And whatever she asked for was instantly granted by a band of winged chambermaids. "All this and Jesus too!" she shouted out loud!
Wherever she went she was feted like a diva, with an entourage of paparazzi and autograph-seekers. She was truly in seventh-heaven.
-x-
A week later she went back to the casino. Roxy was given another million bucks worth of chips as seed money. Every hand she was dwelt was a royal flush. Every throw of the dice came up sixes. Every yank of the one-armed bandit hit the jackpot.
-xi-
The day after that she went back to Bloomingdale’s. Once again it took a dozen wheelbarrows to haul all the diamond rings and emerald earrings and jade bracelets and pearly necklaces and gold brooches back to the penthouse suite, not to mention three semi-trucks to transport all the fur coats. The walk-in closet was getting to be a bit crowded.
-xii-
The day after that she went back to Chez Piggerie, where she had another twelve-course meal consisting of caviar, escargot and Brie for the appetizer; followed by fillet mignon, veal Marsala, venison, rack-of-lamb, Australian lobster, wild boar, king crab, grilled salmon, poached sole, scampi, and breast of pheasant; topped off with chocolate mousse, chocolate cake, chocolate ice cream, and French cheese for desert; and all washed down with five bottles of bubbly.
-xiii-
The day after that she went back to Dior to flip through the latest catalogue.
-xiv-
The day after that, she went back to the Sands to do another concert.
-xv-
The day after she went back to Avalon to do another photo shoot.
-xvi-
After a few more weeks of this, she summoned Mr. Roarke to her suite. "My dear Roxane," he said, "so very good to see you again."
"I wish I could say the same!"
"What’s the matter?"
"For the first few weeks I was afraid that living here was just too good to be true."
"And now?"
"And now I’m afraid that living here is just too true to be good."
"Whatevery do you mean?"
"Well, for one thing, I won the jackpot last night."
"What’s wrong with that?
"The lady sitting to my right won the jackpot as well, while the lady sitting to my left won the jackpot too! Where’s the fun in that?"
"I see your point!"
"Another thing--I can never turn off that damn angel choir! It plays day and night, everywhere I go--whether I'm in the limo, elevator, suite, casino, restaurant, nightclub…there's no off-switch. I can't even turn the volume down to get by beauty sleep!"
"Yes, I can see how irritating that might be."
"I feel like I’m caught between the devil and the deep blue see. If this is the best you can do, I’d rather be in that ‘other’ place, if you catch my drift."
"Where in hell do you think you've been all this time?"
Shadow of Death
-i-
Starbuck was alone in his cell, feeding a pet rat, when the door swung open and another inmate was shoved inside.
"Looks like my dear captors brought me a cellmate to keep me company!" said Starbuck.
"Yes...considerate bunch, aren’t they?" said Hornblower.
"Guess that’s why nobody ever leaves--can’t beat the room service!" said Starbuck. "Cosmo and I were getting downright lonely before you showed up--ain’t that so, Cosmo?" he said, rubbing noses with the rat and assuming a baby-talk tone of voice.
"Cosmo, eh? Isn’t it dangerous to name a rat after our esteemed leader?" said Hornblower.
"Just between one counterrevolutionary and another, what’s a subversive like me got to lose?" Starbuck said, in mock-hushed tones. "Besides, the family resemblance is sooooo striking! No offense, Cosmo," he said, turning to the rat.
"Well, then, let me introduce myself. I’m Starbuck, Undersecretary of the Secretariat of Public Information...at least, that’s what I was before this terrible misunderstanding."
"Name sounds vaguely familiar. As for me, I was a gunnery sergeant in the People’s Republican Army. Hornblower’s the name."
"How’d you wind up here?" Starbuck asked.
"My CO screwed up and then screwed me over to cover his own screw-up. So what’s your story?"
"Don’t know for sure. They won’t tell me. Last month these two blue suited goons came for me, right there in my office, in front of God and everyone, and hauled me off. I suspect it was that smarmy new Assistant Undersecretary...the one I was assigned a few weeks before, who secretly denounced me--one of those...oh, you know...eager-beaver types...could cut his own throat on that steam-creased collar of his."
"Yeah, I know just what you mean. I always promote ‘em to the frontlines first to spend some enemy rounds before sending in my own boys," Hornblower said, in a wheezy, tobacco-saturated laugh.
-ii-
The door opened and yet another inmate was shoved inside.
"Another addition to our exclusive club!" Starbuck exclaimed, as all three shook hands. "My name’s Starbuck, and this here is Sgt. Hornblower".
"Call me Dunkelmann."
"So what did you to do deserve such an honor?" Hornblower asked.
"I was Deputy Director of the Directorate of Internal Security. Can't say why I’m here. They didn't tell me."
"No, they never give a reason, do they?" Starbuck interjected. "I was Undersecretary to the Secretariat, while Hornblower here was with the People’s Republican Army." Hornblower stood at attention and salutes.
"How long have they kept you here?"
"Going on two years now. Hornblower joined me a month later."
"What’s the disposition of your case?"
"I met with my lawyer a few times, but he dropped the case."
"What did he say?"
"You can’t defend yourself unless you deny the charge, you can’t deny the charge unless you say you were falsely accused; as soon as you say you were falsely accused, they say you’re impugning the system of justice, which proves you were justly indicted in the first place."
"Ah, yes, that’s the beauty of the system," said Dunkelmann. "Heads or tails, it always comes up off with their heads!"
"It gets worse. Even your lawyer can’t defend you without complicity. That’s why mine dropped out of sight," said Starbuck.
"It don’t ever pay to be right when the paymaster’s wrong!" Hornblower interjected, running a finger across his neck.
"So what do you guys to for fun and games," Dunkelmann asked.
"We’ve got a lovely view of the firing squad," said Starbuck, taking him over to the window. "On your left you can just make out the gallows. Unfortunately for us, the cell next door has a better view of the gibbet. And sometimes our caregivers even favor us with a beheading or two for holidays and other festivities."
"So there’s more than one form of execution?"
"They like a little variety to liven things up a bit," Starbuck continued. "If you’re just some run-of-the-mill subversive, they hang you or shoot you. It’s cheaper, you know. If you’re something special, then the guillotine awaits! And if you’re extra-special, they fry you alive. On a busy day the whole cellblock takes on that mouth-watering, hickory-smoked aroma!"
-iii-
"Hey, Dunkelmann. Looks like they’re bringing Starbuck back alive!"
Starbuck stumbled in through the door, shaken, sinking to his knees.
"What happened?" Dunkelmann asked. "Did you get a reprieve, a pardon, a..."
"Reprieve is too nice a word. They stayed my execution. That’s what they do around here: string you out while you hope against hope for a pardon, then schedule an execution, strap you in the chair, then cancel it at the very last minute—like a cat toying with a rat."
"At least you escaped the noose to live another day!"
"Yeah, if you can call this hellhole living. After all I’ve..." Starbuck jumps at a flash of light and crackling sound from the electrocution chamber
"Uh…after all I’ve done for the State, and this is how they reward me! I can’t tell you how many hours I spent..." Hornblower pantomimes a violin while Dunkelmann daubs imaginary tears. Starbuck rises to his feet and glares at both of them.
"What do you two think is so goddamn funny?" Starbuck demanded.
"Sorry, Starbuck," said Dunkelmann, "but sometimes you talk as though the universe were delinquent on your paycheck. How can you expect justice in a world like this?"
"That doesn’t make it one whit more fair!"
"I know how you feel, but it’s a funny feeling, all the same. Why do we so often feel out of our element? Does a guppy curse his fate because the water is wet?"
"He’d have plenty to gripe about if he had to swim in this cesspool of ours!"
"I don’t know. So often we act as if we were born for another world."
"Can’t spare a tear for either one of you, if you ask me!" said Hornblower.
"What’s that supposed to mean?" said Starbuck.
"You and Dunkelmann sent many a good man to an unjust death. You make the mistakes and make the foot soldier pay."
"I never condemned an innocent man to death!" said Starbuck, indignantly.
"Oh, yes...yes you did. No, not in so many words, of course, but every time you wrote one of your pretty little speeches for Cosmo, every time..." Another flash of light and crackling sound interrupted his train of thought.
"And every time Dunkelmann did the dirty work for Cosmo, you signed another man’s death warrant."
"Why you treasonous little scumbag!"
"Horny’s right, you know," said, Dunkelmann, lighting a cigarette. "We had it good at the expense of others. We had our little moment in the sun."
"More seditious speech! I can’t believe my ears!" Starbuck exclaimed.
"Don’t you think it’s time to drop the pose?" said Dunkelmann. "You played your dutiful role to the hilt, and look where it landed you?"
"If you never believed in the revolution, how could you serve in the Directorate all those years?"
"It’s not about believing, but surviving. We were both playing our part. The difference between you and me is I know I was play-acting the whole time. That’s the only choice in life--either play the fool or play another for the fool!"
"You dirty little hypocrite!"
"To the contrary, you’re looking at a man of moral consistency. I’m only hypocritical when I need to be!"
-iv-
Starbuck, Dunkelmann & Hornblower were playing cards, using cigarettes as chips.
"I call your cigarette and raise you half a butt," Hornblower said to Starbuck.
"Starbuck, you afraid to die?" Dunkelmann asked.
"Oh, I don’t know," said Starbuck, turning misty-eyed. "Death is such a natural part of life. Without death there is no life. We’re stardust gazing at stardust. When we die we return to the to the very stuff that gave us birth and being, and our mortal remains are...well are recycled to make a another generation of dusty stargazers--yes, billions and billions of dust particles composing billions and billions of dusty stargazers, all perched atop a speck of spinning stardust, and gazing at billions and billions of twinkling stars!
Dunkelmann folded his hands in mock prayer while Hornblower flapped his arms like angel wings.
"‘Scuse me for asking," said Hornblower, "but isn’t that just a pretty way of saying that when you die you turn to dog crap?"
"Now, now, my dear Hornblower," said Dunkelmann, patting him on the shoulder while assuming an indulgent tone of voice, "remember that our beloved Starbuck used to work for the Secretariat. They can make a dunghill smell like rose garden"
"Would you rather jawbone or place a bet?" said Starbuck, huffily.
"I fold," said Hornblower.
"You’re bluffing," said Dunkelmann to Starbuck.
"Try me!"
"I’m running low on cigarettes."
"I thought you had an outside source?"
"I did, until my contact fell out of favor with the Subcommissioner to the Commissar. I think he’s now in the prison block just down the hall."
"What’ll we do for a smoke?" Hornblower asked.
"Rumor has it the guy in the next cell has a rendezvous with Old Sparky this week," Dunkelmann answered in a low tone of voice. "Maybe we can bribe the guard to give us his leftover pack."
"So, what about you, Horny?" said Starbuck.
"What about what?"
"About your own appointment with Old Sparky? It’s only a matter of time, you know."
"Well, death is a damn bloody nuisance, if you ask me. But it’s no use our wasting any womanish fears and tears over the whole affair. Gird up your loins like a man! That’s what I say. Better to build on a firm foundation of unyielding despair. I was dead a...
"It’s your bet," Starbuck interrupted. Hornblower paused, tossing another cigarette into the kitty.
"Where was I?"
"You was dead!" said Dunkelmann.
"Ah, yes, that’s right, I was dead. How could I forget a thing like that! Anyway, as I was saying, I was dead all right--dead a billion years before I was born, and it never inconvenienced me a bit. After snoozing through the eons of time I woke up for a wink of an eye. I’ll die, but only ‘cause I got to live. For every one of me a million squiggly little sperm cells never had a damn chance."
Dunkelmann salutes Starbuck, behind Hornblower's back, who returns the salute.
"So, Dunkelmann, what about you?" said Starbuck.
"Sorry, but I don’t have any flowery speeches to make. This is my creed: first you die, then you rot! Direct and to the point!"
"Yeah, but you leave out all the spunk and all the valor," Hornblower objected. It’s not like we’ve got to face our fate like a dog. "Go not gentle into that good night, but rage, rage against the dying light!"
"’The boy stood on the burning deck’, and all that confounded crap?" said Dunkelmann. "You make it sound like the bloody charge of the light brigade!"
"And what if I do?" said Hornblower, voice raised and eyes ablaze. "Maybe we’re on a death march into a dawnless night, but we can summon the courage to lift a fallen comrade or give him a decent burial. That’s the true baptism by fire into the company of the blood-washed martyrs!"
"O may I join the choir invisible of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence!" said Starbuck.
"Truth is," said Dunkelmann, "you two talk like a pair of drunken choirboys. Such high-flown speeches are for the living, not the dead. Come to think of it, wasn’t the Devil a demoralized saint?"
"It's not about you and me only, but about our part in the whole grand and glorious scheme of things," said Starbuck.
"Oh yes, yes, it is, it is about me, and me alone. That’s exactly what it’s about, all right! We’re all by ourselves out here, shivering in the lonely, cold, and silent spaces of black infinitude--from one end of nothingness to another. And we’ll all die alone, walking the valley of the shadow of death in single file.
Who are you two trying to impress, anyway? The stars? The tombstones? No one’s listening! The graveyard has no ears. The cosmos has no ears. You both got a great way of dressing up the corpse with your eulogies. But face it, guys, life’s a bad joke told by a dead comedian."
"Maybe we’re not all alone. Like, I mean...what about life on other worlds?"
"Guardian angels by another name. Or just another chain-gang doomed to die. What a pair you make--of fat and happy lab rats..." gesturing to the execution room, "but I’ve got news for you--the vivisection table awaits!"
"Really, my dear Dunkelmann," said Hornblower, "you do have a way of ruining a perfectly good game of five-card stud! If that’s how you feel, why not hang yourself and get it over with?"
"That’s a good question. Sometimes I think that suicide is the only question. The mistake was being born. The very first step was the fatal misstep, the original sin. My little pet rat was better off than me for never knowing any better. The only way forward is backward."
"So why don’t you cut your own throat?"
"Because I’m a coward--like everyone else."
Starbuck was alone in his cell, feeding a pet rat, when the door swung open and another inmate was shoved inside.
"Looks like my dear captors brought me a cellmate to keep me company!" said Starbuck.
"Yes...considerate bunch, aren’t they?" said Hornblower.
"Guess that’s why nobody ever leaves--can’t beat the room service!" said Starbuck. "Cosmo and I were getting downright lonely before you showed up--ain’t that so, Cosmo?" he said, rubbing noses with the rat and assuming a baby-talk tone of voice.
"Cosmo, eh? Isn’t it dangerous to name a rat after our esteemed leader?" said Hornblower.
"Just between one counterrevolutionary and another, what’s a subversive like me got to lose?" Starbuck said, in mock-hushed tones. "Besides, the family resemblance is sooooo striking! No offense, Cosmo," he said, turning to the rat.
"Well, then, let me introduce myself. I’m Starbuck, Undersecretary of the Secretariat of Public Information...at least, that’s what I was before this terrible misunderstanding."
"Name sounds vaguely familiar. As for me, I was a gunnery sergeant in the People’s Republican Army. Hornblower’s the name."
"How’d you wind up here?" Starbuck asked.
"My CO screwed up and then screwed me over to cover his own screw-up. So what’s your story?"
"Don’t know for sure. They won’t tell me. Last month these two blue suited goons came for me, right there in my office, in front of God and everyone, and hauled me off. I suspect it was that smarmy new Assistant Undersecretary...the one I was assigned a few weeks before, who secretly denounced me--one of those...oh, you know...eager-beaver types...could cut his own throat on that steam-creased collar of his."
"Yeah, I know just what you mean. I always promote ‘em to the frontlines first to spend some enemy rounds before sending in my own boys," Hornblower said, in a wheezy, tobacco-saturated laugh.
-ii-
The door opened and yet another inmate was shoved inside.
"Another addition to our exclusive club!" Starbuck exclaimed, as all three shook hands. "My name’s Starbuck, and this here is Sgt. Hornblower".
"Call me Dunkelmann."
"So what did you to do deserve such an honor?" Hornblower asked.
"I was Deputy Director of the Directorate of Internal Security. Can't say why I’m here. They didn't tell me."
"No, they never give a reason, do they?" Starbuck interjected. "I was Undersecretary to the Secretariat, while Hornblower here was with the People’s Republican Army." Hornblower stood at attention and salutes.
"How long have they kept you here?"
"Going on two years now. Hornblower joined me a month later."
"What’s the disposition of your case?"
"I met with my lawyer a few times, but he dropped the case."
"What did he say?"
"You can’t defend yourself unless you deny the charge, you can’t deny the charge unless you say you were falsely accused; as soon as you say you were falsely accused, they say you’re impugning the system of justice, which proves you were justly indicted in the first place."
"Ah, yes, that’s the beauty of the system," said Dunkelmann. "Heads or tails, it always comes up off with their heads!"
"It gets worse. Even your lawyer can’t defend you without complicity. That’s why mine dropped out of sight," said Starbuck.
"It don’t ever pay to be right when the paymaster’s wrong!" Hornblower interjected, running a finger across his neck.
"So what do you guys to for fun and games," Dunkelmann asked.
"We’ve got a lovely view of the firing squad," said Starbuck, taking him over to the window. "On your left you can just make out the gallows. Unfortunately for us, the cell next door has a better view of the gibbet. And sometimes our caregivers even favor us with a beheading or two for holidays and other festivities."
"So there’s more than one form of execution?"
"They like a little variety to liven things up a bit," Starbuck continued. "If you’re just some run-of-the-mill subversive, they hang you or shoot you. It’s cheaper, you know. If you’re something special, then the guillotine awaits! And if you’re extra-special, they fry you alive. On a busy day the whole cellblock takes on that mouth-watering, hickory-smoked aroma!"
-iii-
"Hey, Dunkelmann. Looks like they’re bringing Starbuck back alive!"
Starbuck stumbled in through the door, shaken, sinking to his knees.
"What happened?" Dunkelmann asked. "Did you get a reprieve, a pardon, a..."
"Reprieve is too nice a word. They stayed my execution. That’s what they do around here: string you out while you hope against hope for a pardon, then schedule an execution, strap you in the chair, then cancel it at the very last minute—like a cat toying with a rat."
"At least you escaped the noose to live another day!"
"Yeah, if you can call this hellhole living. After all I’ve..." Starbuck jumps at a flash of light and crackling sound from the electrocution chamber
"Uh…after all I’ve done for the State, and this is how they reward me! I can’t tell you how many hours I spent..." Hornblower pantomimes a violin while Dunkelmann daubs imaginary tears. Starbuck rises to his feet and glares at both of them.
"What do you two think is so goddamn funny?" Starbuck demanded.
"Sorry, Starbuck," said Dunkelmann, "but sometimes you talk as though the universe were delinquent on your paycheck. How can you expect justice in a world like this?"
"That doesn’t make it one whit more fair!"
"I know how you feel, but it’s a funny feeling, all the same. Why do we so often feel out of our element? Does a guppy curse his fate because the water is wet?"
"He’d have plenty to gripe about if he had to swim in this cesspool of ours!"
"I don’t know. So often we act as if we were born for another world."
"Can’t spare a tear for either one of you, if you ask me!" said Hornblower.
"What’s that supposed to mean?" said Starbuck.
"You and Dunkelmann sent many a good man to an unjust death. You make the mistakes and make the foot soldier pay."
"I never condemned an innocent man to death!" said Starbuck, indignantly.
"Oh, yes...yes you did. No, not in so many words, of course, but every time you wrote one of your pretty little speeches for Cosmo, every time..." Another flash of light and crackling sound interrupted his train of thought.
"And every time Dunkelmann did the dirty work for Cosmo, you signed another man’s death warrant."
"Why you treasonous little scumbag!"
"Horny’s right, you know," said, Dunkelmann, lighting a cigarette. "We had it good at the expense of others. We had our little moment in the sun."
"More seditious speech! I can’t believe my ears!" Starbuck exclaimed.
"Don’t you think it’s time to drop the pose?" said Dunkelmann. "You played your dutiful role to the hilt, and look where it landed you?"
"If you never believed in the revolution, how could you serve in the Directorate all those years?"
"It’s not about believing, but surviving. We were both playing our part. The difference between you and me is I know I was play-acting the whole time. That’s the only choice in life--either play the fool or play another for the fool!"
"You dirty little hypocrite!"
"To the contrary, you’re looking at a man of moral consistency. I’m only hypocritical when I need to be!"
-iv-
Starbuck, Dunkelmann & Hornblower were playing cards, using cigarettes as chips.
"I call your cigarette and raise you half a butt," Hornblower said to Starbuck.
"Starbuck, you afraid to die?" Dunkelmann asked.
"Oh, I don’t know," said Starbuck, turning misty-eyed. "Death is such a natural part of life. Without death there is no life. We’re stardust gazing at stardust. When we die we return to the to the very stuff that gave us birth and being, and our mortal remains are...well are recycled to make a another generation of dusty stargazers--yes, billions and billions of dust particles composing billions and billions of dusty stargazers, all perched atop a speck of spinning stardust, and gazing at billions and billions of twinkling stars!
Dunkelmann folded his hands in mock prayer while Hornblower flapped his arms like angel wings.
"‘Scuse me for asking," said Hornblower, "but isn’t that just a pretty way of saying that when you die you turn to dog crap?"
"Now, now, my dear Hornblower," said Dunkelmann, patting him on the shoulder while assuming an indulgent tone of voice, "remember that our beloved Starbuck used to work for the Secretariat. They can make a dunghill smell like rose garden"
"Would you rather jawbone or place a bet?" said Starbuck, huffily.
"I fold," said Hornblower.
"You’re bluffing," said Dunkelmann to Starbuck.
"Try me!"
"I’m running low on cigarettes."
"I thought you had an outside source?"
"I did, until my contact fell out of favor with the Subcommissioner to the Commissar. I think he’s now in the prison block just down the hall."
"What’ll we do for a smoke?" Hornblower asked.
"Rumor has it the guy in the next cell has a rendezvous with Old Sparky this week," Dunkelmann answered in a low tone of voice. "Maybe we can bribe the guard to give us his leftover pack."
"So, what about you, Horny?" said Starbuck.
"What about what?"
"About your own appointment with Old Sparky? It’s only a matter of time, you know."
"Well, death is a damn bloody nuisance, if you ask me. But it’s no use our wasting any womanish fears and tears over the whole affair. Gird up your loins like a man! That’s what I say. Better to build on a firm foundation of unyielding despair. I was dead a...
"It’s your bet," Starbuck interrupted. Hornblower paused, tossing another cigarette into the kitty.
"Where was I?"
"You was dead!" said Dunkelmann.
"Ah, yes, that’s right, I was dead. How could I forget a thing like that! Anyway, as I was saying, I was dead all right--dead a billion years before I was born, and it never inconvenienced me a bit. After snoozing through the eons of time I woke up for a wink of an eye. I’ll die, but only ‘cause I got to live. For every one of me a million squiggly little sperm cells never had a damn chance."
Dunkelmann salutes Starbuck, behind Hornblower's back, who returns the salute.
"So, Dunkelmann, what about you?" said Starbuck.
"Sorry, but I don’t have any flowery speeches to make. This is my creed: first you die, then you rot! Direct and to the point!"
"Yeah, but you leave out all the spunk and all the valor," Hornblower objected. It’s not like we’ve got to face our fate like a dog. "Go not gentle into that good night, but rage, rage against the dying light!"
"’The boy stood on the burning deck’, and all that confounded crap?" said Dunkelmann. "You make it sound like the bloody charge of the light brigade!"
"And what if I do?" said Hornblower, voice raised and eyes ablaze. "Maybe we’re on a death march into a dawnless night, but we can summon the courage to lift a fallen comrade or give him a decent burial. That’s the true baptism by fire into the company of the blood-washed martyrs!"
"O may I join the choir invisible of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence!" said Starbuck.
"Truth is," said Dunkelmann, "you two talk like a pair of drunken choirboys. Such high-flown speeches are for the living, not the dead. Come to think of it, wasn’t the Devil a demoralized saint?"
"It's not about you and me only, but about our part in the whole grand and glorious scheme of things," said Starbuck.
"Oh yes, yes, it is, it is about me, and me alone. That’s exactly what it’s about, all right! We’re all by ourselves out here, shivering in the lonely, cold, and silent spaces of black infinitude--from one end of nothingness to another. And we’ll all die alone, walking the valley of the shadow of death in single file.
Who are you two trying to impress, anyway? The stars? The tombstones? No one’s listening! The graveyard has no ears. The cosmos has no ears. You both got a great way of dressing up the corpse with your eulogies. But face it, guys, life’s a bad joke told by a dead comedian."
"Maybe we’re not all alone. Like, I mean...what about life on other worlds?"
"Guardian angels by another name. Or just another chain-gang doomed to die. What a pair you make--of fat and happy lab rats..." gesturing to the execution room, "but I’ve got news for you--the vivisection table awaits!"
"Really, my dear Dunkelmann," said Hornblower, "you do have a way of ruining a perfectly good game of five-card stud! If that’s how you feel, why not hang yourself and get it over with?"
"That’s a good question. Sometimes I think that suicide is the only question. The mistake was being born. The very first step was the fatal misstep, the original sin. My little pet rat was better off than me for never knowing any better. The only way forward is backward."
"So why don’t you cut your own throat?"
"Because I’m a coward--like everyone else."
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Was Darwin wrong?
1. Since Jonathan Wells as written a review article, rebutting the "overwhelming evidence" or "vast body of supporting evidence" marshaled by David Quammen, I'll pass over that part of Quammen's article in silence.
2. What is the evidence for relativity? The article doesn't say. One argument I've often read is evidence of time-dilation. But is this evidence that time is not a constant, or only that the rate of a physical process is not a constant? These are two very different questions.
One problem with relativity theory is that it doesn't mesh with quantum theory.
3. What is the evidence for heliocentrism? The article doesn't say. Actually, the theories of Mach and Einstein on equivalent forces and equivalent reference-frames would seem to make it easier to defend geocentrism. I ran this very question by a professional astronomer I happen to know (John Byl), who confirmed my intuitions:
"Yes. According to general relativity one should get the same observational results, regardless of whether the earth is considered to be at rest, with the rest of the universe revolving about it, or vice versa. (See D.Lynden-Bell et al, "Mach's Principle from the Relativistic Constraint Equations", Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society, 1995 Vol 272: 150-160)."
Geocentrism appears to be obviously false, but appearances are deceiving.
4. What is the evidence for plate tectonics? The article doesn't say. Einstein wrote a glowing forward to Charles Hapgood's book on polar shifts, Path of the Pole (Adventures Unlimited Press 1999), which is a rival theory to continental drift.
Robert Gange, the NASA scientist, is a critic of plate tectonics. See his article on "Continental Drift."
Walt Brown, who has a doctorate in mechanical engineering from MIT, has a rather damning conversation with J. Tuzo Wilson, one of the founders of plate tectonics. www.creationscience.com.
5. What is the evidence for atomic theory? The article doesn't say. Isn't atomic theory bound up with modern-day particle physics, quantum mechanics, and string theory? Much of this is extremely abstract and counterintuitive.
A theory doesn't have to be true to be successful. Newtonian physics and 19C ether theories were very successful in their heyday.
Scientists often operate with such metascientific assumptions as uniformity and methodological naturalism. These are not empirical data. They are not derived from the evidence. Rather, they serve as an interpretive grid through which the evidence is filtered, and contrary evidence is screened out.
My purpose is not to take a position on the truth of falsity of Relativity or plate tectonics or atomic theory or heliocentrism. Quammen is trying to predispose the reader to accept Darwinism by appealing to various other theories which he takes for granted. And my point is simply that his softening-up exercise is question-begging. One theory is not a preparation for another theory on an unrelated topc.
It is true that Christians feel threatened by Darwinism. However, the Darwinist should feel just as threatened by Darwinism. The hard-core Darwinist denies the afterlife, moral absolutes, and consciousness itself. If true, he is trapped aboard the same burning and sinking ship as the Christian.
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Thanks for calling my attention to Selbin's article in the Boulder Camera.
A few comments:
<< Selbin: Faith is outside realm of science >>
This way of framing the issue misses the point. The point is what may be known, and how it may be known. To draw stipulative lines in the sand assumes that we already know what is knowable before we look out the window.
<< School boards around the country are considering whether to put faith-based Intelligent Design alongside science-based evolution in science classes. >>
ID-theory is not faith-based. It reasons from science to God. That is why Dembski entitled his first book _The Design Inference_.
<< The recent re-election of an administration that advocates "creation science" and often makes political decisions on faith-based philosophies rather than on hard, cold reality. >>
What administration officials subscribe to creation science? Can Selbin name any? If he can, why doesn't he?
What political decisions have been made on faith-based philosophies? Again, where are the specifics?
<< Religion has a clear place in the home, in comparative religion courses and in churches, synagogues, mosques, etc., but it has no place in science courses. >>
This assumes, without benefit of argument, that science has no religious presuppostitions or implications. Why, only last week, I was reading a paper by a leading physicist (Don Page), entitled "Attaching Theories of Consciousness to Bohmian Quatum Mechanics" in which he said the following: "I personally also believe that a description of full SQM [Sensible Quantum Mechanics] or SBM [Sensible Bohmian Mechanics] world wold be simpler if one postulates the existence of an omniscient, omnipotent God as the Creator of this world, but of course this further extrapolation from direct conscious experience takes one beyond what is traditionally called physics to metaphysics."
Now, simplicity is a key criterion in scientific theorizing. If the "extrapolation" of God simplifies quantum mechanics, then that does have a place in science courses--to take but one example.
<< After the Supreme Court in 1987 banned the teaching of creationism in public schools on grounds of separation of church and state, creationists have changed their call for teaching "creationism" to the teaching of "intelligent design." Only the words are different. The so-called "theory" is not. >>
So it took 200 years after the ratification of the Constitution to discover that the teaching of creationism violated the separation of church and state? Doesn't this judicial finding seem a tad anachronistic?
Creationism and ID-theory are not the same. Just compare the standard creationist literature (e.g. K. Wise, _Faith, Form, & Time_; W. Brown, _In the Beginning_) with the standard ID literature (e.g., W. Dembski, _No Free Lunch_; M. Behe, _Darwin's Black Box_) to see the difference in methods, presuppositions, and content.
<< The claim by creationists that evolution is merely a theory, is quite simply, and outrageously, false. Evolution has been observed and very extensively established by thousands of scientists, many thousands of times over about 140 years and at sites around the world. The results have been published in thousands of independent articles in peer-reviewed scientific journals. Evolution, under attack by certain fundamentalist Christians, is very well established by scientific observations. >>
Notice that Selbin doesn't favor the reader with any concrete examples. Why is that? What does he mean by saying that evolution has been observed? Does he mean that the process of evolution has been observed in real time? Or does he mean that the results of evolution have been observed?
Again, is he talking about specialized adaptive variants, or the development of new organs and body-plans?
Of course, "peer-review" is becoming a euphemism for censorship, so the appeal is tendentious.
<< A theory must be able to do two powerful things. It must be able to satisfactorily explain what we already know, and it must be successful in predicting things we do not yet know. When scientists do not understand something, they set up observations and experiments and seek independent and reproducible results. When the proponents of ID (the creationists) do not understand or cannot explain something, they simply attribute the unknown to an even more, albeit magnificent and glorious, unknown, an "intelligent designer." . Science seeks answers without creating or tolerating myths or calling upon faith. There is nothing wrong or unsatisfying with faith. However, since it is by definition not based upon any evidence, it is outside the realm of science. This is the primary reason intelligent design should not appear in a science class. >>
First of all, the testability of ID-theory is discussed in ID-literature, if Selbin bothered to inform himself.
Notice, though, that he applies his two-pronged criterion to ID-theory, but not to evolutionary theory. Why the omission? Why the double-standard?
What predictions has evolutionary theory made? Have these predictions, if any, been proven true?
Punctuated equilibrium was proposed because Darwinian gradualism was falsified by the evidence. At least, that's what Gould and Eldridge thought.
Where has evolution been reproduced in the laboratory? I don't mean microevolution. I mean macro. Why doesn't Selbin give the reader any documented examples for their consideration?
Selbin says that the intelligent designer is unknown. Where is the supporting argument for this claim? There's a vast literature in apologetics, natural and philosophical theology to the contrary.
What "myths?" Could Selbin point the reader to a creation myth in the writings of Denton, Dembski, Behe, et al.?
In what sense is faith by definition not based on any evidence? What about the vast literature in apologetics, natural and philosophical theology?
<< But since the ID people require that all things must have a creator, I would ask them to explain to us: Who or what created the intelligent designer? >>
This is a straw man argument. ID-theory doesn't demand that all things have a creator. Notice that Selbin doesn't quote any ID-theorist who has said that. Here is a canonical definition which I pulled off the official website of the ID movement:
"The theory of intelligent design holds that certain features of the universe and of living things are best explained by an intelligent cause, not an undirected process such as natural selection."
For all his talk of evidence, Selbin offers no hard evidence for evolution, no references to the relevant literature. Likewise, he shows no evidence of having read any of the standard literature on ID-theory, much less apologetics, natural and philosophical theology.
So the whole exercise reeks of hidebound ignorance and prejudice parading as science.
********************
Thanks for the Time article:
The problem begins with a runaway court system. You have rogue judges, setting themselves above the law, pretending that the Establishment Clause means something it never meant.
And when judges play games with the rule of law, then this, in turn, forces the antievolutionary movement to play semantic games as well.
So the liberal establishment leaves the antievolutionary movement with a bad set of forced options, then faults the antievolutionary movement for exercising a bad forced option!
Another reason these debates keep cropping up is that the liberal establishment makes it as difficult as possible for Christians to opt out of the public school system. They try their damnedest to keep a captive audience, then whine and bellyache when the captives complain about the terms of their confinement!
I don't think that we should delete references to evolution in science textbooks. That simply stifles debate in the opposition direction.
To characterize this as a stealth attack is pretty silly. It's not as though the ID-movement is a secret society with a secret handshake, blood-pacts, and a code language. It's not as though ex-members who spill the beans end up floating down the river in varied states of dismemberment.
The ID-movement publishes books, runs public websites, sponsors public debates, holds public seminars, supplies expert witnesses in court and at public school board meetings, &c. There is no hidden agenda.
I don't quite see the point of who's funding the movement, although the distinction of being the "leading male-chauvinist pig author" was no doubt too good to pass up.
Dawkins holds a chair endowed by a cofounder of Microsoft (Allen). Is that a sinister connection?
It isn't at all clear to me that evolutionary establishment welcomes an intellectual challenge. To begin with, the battle between Gould and Dawkins got quite nasty. And even if they do welcome a good challenge, they only welcome a challenge within the evolutionary paradigm, and not a challenge to the evolutionary paradigm itself.
It is true that merely slapping the label of a "theory" on evolution doesn't amount to much, for not all theories are equal--some are better attested, and enjoy more explanatory power than others.
It is possible to agree on the facts, but disagree on how the facts came to be. Two oncologists might agree on their diagnosis, but disagree on cause or the treatment of cancer.
However, evolutionary theory places an evolutionary construction on the scientific evidence. It is not that the raw data point unambiguously in an evolutionary direction. Evolution is brought in to account for the pattern; not necessarily that the pattern of evidence is prearrange in a pat evolutionary pattern. Evolutionary theory, as I understand it, is an elaborate intellectual construct which pieces together diverse evidence from different dates and digs and places and so forth. The empirical pattern is pretty scattershot.
To take one example, classic evolution predicted a cone of increasing diversification. But one reason that Gould and Eldridge proposed punctuate equilibrium is that in sites such as the Burgess Shale, they saw the cone in reverse, with a decreasing cone of diversity.
Again, I'm no expert. But when I read articles like this, this sort of thing is constantly ignored or overlooked.
One of the problems with an article like this is that it mounts counterarguments that have already been addressed in the ID-literature. Take the following counterexample:
"Biologists see it differently. They say, for example, a primitive, light-sensing patch of skin--a forerunner of the retina--could help animals detect the shadows of predators."
Notice, first of all, that no chain of evidence has been entered into the record to show that this is, in fact, what happened. No evidence is adduced to show the incremental evolution from a light-sensitive spot to a functioning retina.
We're just told that maybe this "could" confer a survival advantage. Is that what passes for scientific evidence?
Moreover, the impression which the uniformed reader would derive from this counterexample is that no ID-theorist has ever tried to field this objection. Actually, this was brought up in one of the earlier entries into the debate:
"We are invited by Dawkins and Darwin to believe that the evolution of the eye proceeded step-by-step through a series of plausible intermediates in infinitesimal increments. But are they infinitesimal? Remember that the 'light-sensitive spot' that Dawkins takes as his starting point requires a cascade of factors, including 11-cis-retinal and rhodopsin, to function. Dawkins doesn't mention them. And where did the 'little cup' come from? A ball of cells--from which the cup must be made--will tend to be rounded unless held in the correct shape by molecular supports. In fact, there are dozens of complex proteins involved in maintaining cell shape, and dozens more that control extracellular structure; in their absence, cells take on the shape of so many soap bubbles. Do these structures represent single-step mutations?" M. Behe (Simon & Schulster 1996, 1998), 38.
This reply has been in the public domain for nearly a decade, yet the Time science writer trots out the evolutionary counterargument as though this has gone unchallenged and unanswered.
And this is one reason that the evolutionary establishment finds itself on the run. It doesn't think it has to answer back, has to acknowledge any intellectual challenge. If you don't jump into the fray, you lose by default.
Or take this statement: "All the think tanks want to do, they insist, is make the teaching of evolution more honest by bringing up its drawbacks. Who could argue with that? But the mainstream scientific community contends that this seemingly innocuous agenda is actually a stealthy way of promoting religion. "Teaching evidence against evolution is a backdoor way of teaching creationism," says Eugenie Scott, executive director of the National Center for Science Education. "
Now, suppose, for the sake of argument, that Mr. Scott is correct. How is that responsive to the question of whether evolutionary theory is or is not problematic on its own grounds? This sounds less like science education than politics. Is it his position that even if evolutionary theory were problematic, the problems must be swept under the rug lest the creationist community exploit the theory's weaknesses? Is that how one teaches science?
When I was a kid in school, we were taught that the first job of a scientist is not to prove his theory, but to try to disprove his theory. In other words, the best way of proving it would be to see if it could resist disproof. But now, at least where evolution is concerned, the theory has been put under glass. Doesn't this begin to resemble the red-capped cardinals who refused to peer into Galileo's telescope for fear of the consequences?
I'm no scientist, but when I can take this and other such articles apart in the course of a few minutes, it merely reinforces the credibility gap.
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Chris,
You said:
<>
These are questions which rapidly spiral into nested complexities, so all I can do for now is to block out the basic answers. That will oversimplify matters, but we have to start somewhere. Let's begin at a macro level and get a bit more micro later on.
i) Christianity is a revealed religion. It stakes its veracity on its status as a revealed religion.
So it's a package deal--all-or-nothing. That's how the Bible presents itself as an object of belief. What is more, there is an inner logic to that presentation inasmuch as partial inspiration would defeat the very rationale for revelation in the first place.
Like it or not, a Christian is precommitted to certain propositions. That just goes with the territory.
ii) Some folks suppose that because the Bible was addressed to a prescientific audience, then it's okay to reinterpret Scripture in light of modern science.
But, for me, the reasoning is just the reverse. Because it was addressed to a prescientific audience, it must be understand at that level, for that was the level at which it was meant to be believed. To do otherwise would be anachronistic, like reinterpreting Dante's Aristotelian-Polemaic cosmology in light of Bohr and Einstein.
Whenever we interpret a document from the past, whether inspired or uninspired, we must assume the historical viewpoint of the original author and his implied audience.
To say that is not to say how we should interpret Genesis, but only to set a benchmark.
iii) As to the scientific evidence, my initial approach to science is via metascience. What is our philosophy of science? In particular, what is our theory of perception?
Our scientific theories are only as good as our theories of perception. So before we ever get to the scientific issues, we need to settle on our general epistemology.
Now, very roughly speaking, I'm in the camp of indirect realism. I don't believe that the mind has direct access to the external world. In my opinion, our mental representation is a correlate of the sensible world rather than a copy of the sensible world.
By way of comparison, the formula for deriving the Mandelbrot set is a correlate of the Mandelbrot set. Yet there is no resemblance between the appearance of the formula and the appearance of the set which the formula can generate--say, on a computer screen.
I've laid out my metascientific views in a couple of essays: one the recent essay "On knowing what we know," the other in the science section of my essay on "I'm glad you asked."
iv) In short, if left to our own devices, I don't know, when I look outside, what I'm actually seeing (or hearing or tasting or touching or smelling), for perception presupposes rather than penetrates the veil of perception.
v) At the level of sensation, there is no public world, only a private world. Yes, there is a public world which we all perceive, but our perceptions are private. The percipient is sealed away in his own, modular subjectivity.
vi) There is, though, one cognitive agent who enjoys an intersubjectival understanding of the world as it really is, in itself. That is the Creator of the world. He can and has disclosed himself to man, and, in so doing, his revelation operates, in part, as an external check on our filtered outlook.
vii) My scientific antirealism is just as sceptical of creation science as it is of evolution or modern cosmology or historical geology. So it cuts both ways. I'm an equal opportunity sceptic! In this respect, I'm not "following in the footsteps of much of the evangelical community today."
viii) As to molecular clocks and the like, I've addressed that question in my essay on "Tell me the time."
ix) Exegetically speaking, you will be unable to decouple the Resurrection from the historic fall of man, for 1 Cor 15 treats them as historically analogous and interconnected.
x) Is it possible to be a Christian and a theistic evolutionist? That question admits different answers. Theistic evolution is a logically coherent position--although guys like Gould and Dawkins don't think it very plausible.
And it is psychologically possible to affirm both. B. B. Warfield was a theistic evolutionist.
But, theologically speaking, these are incompatible beliefs. It is possible to hold inconsistent beliefs, but they are inconsistent--all the same.
xi) As to the fact of evolution--the fossil record, I can only speak as a layman:
a) A global flood would be a fossil factory. I'm not trying to place a more precise construction on its impact than that, because I have no way of knowing the extent or pattern of the evidence generated by such an event. But that does introduce a very large wild card into the deck.
b) Although I've read and viewed a lot of high-level popularizations of evolutionary theory, I've never seen the raw evidence. Instead, what I'm presented with is a smattering of evidence that has been arranged in an evolutionary pattern. The pattern doesn't exist in the natural record itself, as given in that actual order. Rather, miscellaneous odds and ends scavenged from different sites at different levels are cobbled together and fitted together with evolutionary theory driving the reconstruction of the evidence rather than the raw evidence driving the construction of the theory.
c) Darwinians habitually and deliberately blur evidence of macroevolution with microevolution. Of course, I realize that, from their standpoint, it's a natural continuum--that there is no hard-and-fast distinction. That, however, assumes an evolutionary take on the evidence.
What would the evidence look like if they were to scrupulously segregate microevolutionary evidence from macroevolutionary evidence?
d) The fossil evidence for evolution would be clear evidence of evolution if it presented an evolutionary trend. Yet Darwinians also tell us that evolution is, in the nature of the case, undirected, and, therefore, without any consistent linear progression.
Again, I've said a bit more about the particulars in my "I'm glad" essay.
I've covered a lot of ground here in a very short space. But I do have supporting arguments in some of supplemental material I've referred you to.
2. What is the evidence for relativity? The article doesn't say. One argument I've often read is evidence of time-dilation. But is this evidence that time is not a constant, or only that the rate of a physical process is not a constant? These are two very different questions.
One problem with relativity theory is that it doesn't mesh with quantum theory.
3. What is the evidence for heliocentrism? The article doesn't say. Actually, the theories of Mach and Einstein on equivalent forces and equivalent reference-frames would seem to make it easier to defend geocentrism. I ran this very question by a professional astronomer I happen to know (John Byl), who confirmed my intuitions:
"Yes. According to general relativity one should get the same observational results, regardless of whether the earth is considered to be at rest, with the rest of the universe revolving about it, or vice versa. (See D.Lynden-Bell et al, "Mach's Principle from the Relativistic Constraint Equations", Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society, 1995 Vol 272: 150-160)."
Geocentrism appears to be obviously false, but appearances are deceiving.
4. What is the evidence for plate tectonics? The article doesn't say. Einstein wrote a glowing forward to Charles Hapgood's book on polar shifts, Path of the Pole (Adventures Unlimited Press 1999), which is a rival theory to continental drift.
Robert Gange, the NASA scientist, is a critic of plate tectonics. See his article on "Continental Drift."
Walt Brown, who has a doctorate in mechanical engineering from MIT, has a rather damning conversation with J. Tuzo Wilson, one of the founders of plate tectonics. www.creationscience.com.
5. What is the evidence for atomic theory? The article doesn't say. Isn't atomic theory bound up with modern-day particle physics, quantum mechanics, and string theory? Much of this is extremely abstract and counterintuitive.
A theory doesn't have to be true to be successful. Newtonian physics and 19C ether theories were very successful in their heyday.
Scientists often operate with such metascientific assumptions as uniformity and methodological naturalism. These are not empirical data. They are not derived from the evidence. Rather, they serve as an interpretive grid through which the evidence is filtered, and contrary evidence is screened out.
My purpose is not to take a position on the truth of falsity of Relativity or plate tectonics or atomic theory or heliocentrism. Quammen is trying to predispose the reader to accept Darwinism by appealing to various other theories which he takes for granted. And my point is simply that his softening-up exercise is question-begging. One theory is not a preparation for another theory on an unrelated topc.
It is true that Christians feel threatened by Darwinism. However, the Darwinist should feel just as threatened by Darwinism. The hard-core Darwinist denies the afterlife, moral absolutes, and consciousness itself. If true, he is trapped aboard the same burning and sinking ship as the Christian.
**********************
Thanks for calling my attention to Selbin's article in the Boulder Camera.
A few comments:
<< Selbin: Faith is outside realm of science >>
This way of framing the issue misses the point. The point is what may be known, and how it may be known. To draw stipulative lines in the sand assumes that we already know what is knowable before we look out the window.
<< School boards around the country are considering whether to put faith-based Intelligent Design alongside science-based evolution in science classes. >>
ID-theory is not faith-based. It reasons from science to God. That is why Dembski entitled his first book _The Design Inference_.
<< The recent re-election of an administration that advocates "creation science" and often makes political decisions on faith-based philosophies rather than on hard, cold reality. >>
What administration officials subscribe to creation science? Can Selbin name any? If he can, why doesn't he?
What political decisions have been made on faith-based philosophies? Again, where are the specifics?
<< Religion has a clear place in the home, in comparative religion courses and in churches, synagogues, mosques, etc., but it has no place in science courses. >>
This assumes, without benefit of argument, that science has no religious presuppostitions or implications. Why, only last week, I was reading a paper by a leading physicist (Don Page), entitled "Attaching Theories of Consciousness to Bohmian Quatum Mechanics" in which he said the following: "I personally also believe that a description of full SQM [Sensible Quantum Mechanics] or SBM [Sensible Bohmian Mechanics] world wold be simpler if one postulates the existence of an omniscient, omnipotent God as the Creator of this world, but of course this further extrapolation from direct conscious experience takes one beyond what is traditionally called physics to metaphysics."
Now, simplicity is a key criterion in scientific theorizing. If the "extrapolation" of God simplifies quantum mechanics, then that does have a place in science courses--to take but one example.
<< After the Supreme Court in 1987 banned the teaching of creationism in public schools on grounds of separation of church and state, creationists have changed their call for teaching "creationism" to the teaching of "intelligent design." Only the words are different. The so-called "theory" is not. >>
So it took 200 years after the ratification of the Constitution to discover that the teaching of creationism violated the separation of church and state? Doesn't this judicial finding seem a tad anachronistic?
Creationism and ID-theory are not the same. Just compare the standard creationist literature (e.g. K. Wise, _Faith, Form, & Time_; W. Brown, _In the Beginning_) with the standard ID literature (e.g., W. Dembski, _No Free Lunch_; M. Behe, _Darwin's Black Box_) to see the difference in methods, presuppositions, and content.
<< The claim by creationists that evolution is merely a theory, is quite simply, and outrageously, false. Evolution has been observed and very extensively established by thousands of scientists, many thousands of times over about 140 years and at sites around the world. The results have been published in thousands of independent articles in peer-reviewed scientific journals. Evolution, under attack by certain fundamentalist Christians, is very well established by scientific observations. >>
Notice that Selbin doesn't favor the reader with any concrete examples. Why is that? What does he mean by saying that evolution has been observed? Does he mean that the process of evolution has been observed in real time? Or does he mean that the results of evolution have been observed?
Again, is he talking about specialized adaptive variants, or the development of new organs and body-plans?
Of course, "peer-review" is becoming a euphemism for censorship, so the appeal is tendentious.
<< A theory must be able to do two powerful things. It must be able to satisfactorily explain what we already know, and it must be successful in predicting things we do not yet know. When scientists do not understand something, they set up observations and experiments and seek independent and reproducible results. When the proponents of ID (the creationists) do not understand or cannot explain something, they simply attribute the unknown to an even more, albeit magnificent and glorious, unknown, an "intelligent designer." . Science seeks answers without creating or tolerating myths or calling upon faith. There is nothing wrong or unsatisfying with faith. However, since it is by definition not based upon any evidence, it is outside the realm of science. This is the primary reason intelligent design should not appear in a science class. >>
First of all, the testability of ID-theory is discussed in ID-literature, if Selbin bothered to inform himself.
Notice, though, that he applies his two-pronged criterion to ID-theory, but not to evolutionary theory. Why the omission? Why the double-standard?
What predictions has evolutionary theory made? Have these predictions, if any, been proven true?
Punctuated equilibrium was proposed because Darwinian gradualism was falsified by the evidence. At least, that's what Gould and Eldridge thought.
Where has evolution been reproduced in the laboratory? I don't mean microevolution. I mean macro. Why doesn't Selbin give the reader any documented examples for their consideration?
Selbin says that the intelligent designer is unknown. Where is the supporting argument for this claim? There's a vast literature in apologetics, natural and philosophical theology to the contrary.
What "myths?" Could Selbin point the reader to a creation myth in the writings of Denton, Dembski, Behe, et al.?
In what sense is faith by definition not based on any evidence? What about the vast literature in apologetics, natural and philosophical theology?
<< But since the ID people require that all things must have a creator, I would ask them to explain to us: Who or what created the intelligent designer? >>
This is a straw man argument. ID-theory doesn't demand that all things have a creator. Notice that Selbin doesn't quote any ID-theorist who has said that. Here is a canonical definition which I pulled off the official website of the ID movement:
"The theory of intelligent design holds that certain features of the universe and of living things are best explained by an intelligent cause, not an undirected process such as natural selection."
For all his talk of evidence, Selbin offers no hard evidence for evolution, no references to the relevant literature. Likewise, he shows no evidence of having read any of the standard literature on ID-theory, much less apologetics, natural and philosophical theology.
So the whole exercise reeks of hidebound ignorance and prejudice parading as science.
********************
Thanks for the Time article:
The problem begins with a runaway court system. You have rogue judges, setting themselves above the law, pretending that the Establishment Clause means something it never meant.
And when judges play games with the rule of law, then this, in turn, forces the antievolutionary movement to play semantic games as well.
So the liberal establishment leaves the antievolutionary movement with a bad set of forced options, then faults the antievolutionary movement for exercising a bad forced option!
Another reason these debates keep cropping up is that the liberal establishment makes it as difficult as possible for Christians to opt out of the public school system. They try their damnedest to keep a captive audience, then whine and bellyache when the captives complain about the terms of their confinement!
I don't think that we should delete references to evolution in science textbooks. That simply stifles debate in the opposition direction.
To characterize this as a stealth attack is pretty silly. It's not as though the ID-movement is a secret society with a secret handshake, blood-pacts, and a code language. It's not as though ex-members who spill the beans end up floating down the river in varied states of dismemberment.
The ID-movement publishes books, runs public websites, sponsors public debates, holds public seminars, supplies expert witnesses in court and at public school board meetings, &c. There is no hidden agenda.
I don't quite see the point of who's funding the movement, although the distinction of being the "leading male-chauvinist pig author" was no doubt too good to pass up.
Dawkins holds a chair endowed by a cofounder of Microsoft (Allen). Is that a sinister connection?
It isn't at all clear to me that evolutionary establishment welcomes an intellectual challenge. To begin with, the battle between Gould and Dawkins got quite nasty. And even if they do welcome a good challenge, they only welcome a challenge within the evolutionary paradigm, and not a challenge to the evolutionary paradigm itself.
It is true that merely slapping the label of a "theory" on evolution doesn't amount to much, for not all theories are equal--some are better attested, and enjoy more explanatory power than others.
It is possible to agree on the facts, but disagree on how the facts came to be. Two oncologists might agree on their diagnosis, but disagree on cause or the treatment of cancer.
However, evolutionary theory places an evolutionary construction on the scientific evidence. It is not that the raw data point unambiguously in an evolutionary direction. Evolution is brought in to account for the pattern; not necessarily that the pattern of evidence is prearrange in a pat evolutionary pattern. Evolutionary theory, as I understand it, is an elaborate intellectual construct which pieces together diverse evidence from different dates and digs and places and so forth. The empirical pattern is pretty scattershot.
To take one example, classic evolution predicted a cone of increasing diversification. But one reason that Gould and Eldridge proposed punctuate equilibrium is that in sites such as the Burgess Shale, they saw the cone in reverse, with a decreasing cone of diversity.
Again, I'm no expert. But when I read articles like this, this sort of thing is constantly ignored or overlooked.
One of the problems with an article like this is that it mounts counterarguments that have already been addressed in the ID-literature. Take the following counterexample:
"Biologists see it differently. They say, for example, a primitive, light-sensing patch of skin--a forerunner of the retina--could help animals detect the shadows of predators."
Notice, first of all, that no chain of evidence has been entered into the record to show that this is, in fact, what happened. No evidence is adduced to show the incremental evolution from a light-sensitive spot to a functioning retina.
We're just told that maybe this "could" confer a survival advantage. Is that what passes for scientific evidence?
Moreover, the impression which the uniformed reader would derive from this counterexample is that no ID-theorist has ever tried to field this objection. Actually, this was brought up in one of the earlier entries into the debate:
"We are invited by Dawkins and Darwin to believe that the evolution of the eye proceeded step-by-step through a series of plausible intermediates in infinitesimal increments. But are they infinitesimal? Remember that the 'light-sensitive spot' that Dawkins takes as his starting point requires a cascade of factors, including 11-cis-retinal and rhodopsin, to function. Dawkins doesn't mention them. And where did the 'little cup' come from? A ball of cells--from which the cup must be made--will tend to be rounded unless held in the correct shape by molecular supports. In fact, there are dozens of complex proteins involved in maintaining cell shape, and dozens more that control extracellular structure; in their absence, cells take on the shape of so many soap bubbles. Do these structures represent single-step mutations?" M. Behe (Simon & Schulster 1996, 1998), 38.
This reply has been in the public domain for nearly a decade, yet the Time science writer trots out the evolutionary counterargument as though this has gone unchallenged and unanswered.
And this is one reason that the evolutionary establishment finds itself on the run. It doesn't think it has to answer back, has to acknowledge any intellectual challenge. If you don't jump into the fray, you lose by default.
Or take this statement: "All the think tanks want to do, they insist, is make the teaching of evolution more honest by bringing up its drawbacks. Who could argue with that? But the mainstream scientific community contends that this seemingly innocuous agenda is actually a stealthy way of promoting religion. "Teaching evidence against evolution is a backdoor way of teaching creationism," says Eugenie Scott, executive director of the National Center for Science Education. "
Now, suppose, for the sake of argument, that Mr. Scott is correct. How is that responsive to the question of whether evolutionary theory is or is not problematic on its own grounds? This sounds less like science education than politics. Is it his position that even if evolutionary theory were problematic, the problems must be swept under the rug lest the creationist community exploit the theory's weaknesses? Is that how one teaches science?
When I was a kid in school, we were taught that the first job of a scientist is not to prove his theory, but to try to disprove his theory. In other words, the best way of proving it would be to see if it could resist disproof. But now, at least where evolution is concerned, the theory has been put under glass. Doesn't this begin to resemble the red-capped cardinals who refused to peer into Galileo's telescope for fear of the consequences?
I'm no scientist, but when I can take this and other such articles apart in the course of a few minutes, it merely reinforces the credibility gap.
****************
Chris,
You said:
<
These are questions which rapidly spiral into nested complexities, so all I can do for now is to block out the basic answers. That will oversimplify matters, but we have to start somewhere. Let's begin at a macro level and get a bit more micro later on.
i) Christianity is a revealed religion. It stakes its veracity on its status as a revealed religion.
So it's a package deal--all-or-nothing. That's how the Bible presents itself as an object of belief. What is more, there is an inner logic to that presentation inasmuch as partial inspiration would defeat the very rationale for revelation in the first place.
Like it or not, a Christian is precommitted to certain propositions. That just goes with the territory.
ii) Some folks suppose that because the Bible was addressed to a prescientific audience, then it's okay to reinterpret Scripture in light of modern science.
But, for me, the reasoning is just the reverse. Because it was addressed to a prescientific audience, it must be understand at that level, for that was the level at which it was meant to be believed. To do otherwise would be anachronistic, like reinterpreting Dante's Aristotelian-Polemaic cosmology in light of Bohr and Einstein.
Whenever we interpret a document from the past, whether inspired or uninspired, we must assume the historical viewpoint of the original author and his implied audience.
To say that is not to say how we should interpret Genesis, but only to set a benchmark.
iii) As to the scientific evidence, my initial approach to science is via metascience. What is our philosophy of science? In particular, what is our theory of perception?
Our scientific theories are only as good as our theories of perception. So before we ever get to the scientific issues, we need to settle on our general epistemology.
Now, very roughly speaking, I'm in the camp of indirect realism. I don't believe that the mind has direct access to the external world. In my opinion, our mental representation is a correlate of the sensible world rather than a copy of the sensible world.
By way of comparison, the formula for deriving the Mandelbrot set is a correlate of the Mandelbrot set. Yet there is no resemblance between the appearance of the formula and the appearance of the set which the formula can generate--say, on a computer screen.
I've laid out my metascientific views in a couple of essays: one the recent essay "On knowing what we know," the other in the science section of my essay on "I'm glad you asked."
iv) In short, if left to our own devices, I don't know, when I look outside, what I'm actually seeing (or hearing or tasting or touching or smelling), for perception presupposes rather than penetrates the veil of perception.
v) At the level of sensation, there is no public world, only a private world. Yes, there is a public world which we all perceive, but our perceptions are private. The percipient is sealed away in his own, modular subjectivity.
vi) There is, though, one cognitive agent who enjoys an intersubjectival understanding of the world as it really is, in itself. That is the Creator of the world. He can and has disclosed himself to man, and, in so doing, his revelation operates, in part, as an external check on our filtered outlook.
vii) My scientific antirealism is just as sceptical of creation science as it is of evolution or modern cosmology or historical geology. So it cuts both ways. I'm an equal opportunity sceptic! In this respect, I'm not "following in the footsteps of much of the evangelical community today."
viii) As to molecular clocks and the like, I've addressed that question in my essay on "Tell me the time."
ix) Exegetically speaking, you will be unable to decouple the Resurrection from the historic fall of man, for 1 Cor 15 treats them as historically analogous and interconnected.
x) Is it possible to be a Christian and a theistic evolutionist? That question admits different answers. Theistic evolution is a logically coherent position--although guys like Gould and Dawkins don't think it very plausible.
And it is psychologically possible to affirm both. B. B. Warfield was a theistic evolutionist.
But, theologically speaking, these are incompatible beliefs. It is possible to hold inconsistent beliefs, but they are inconsistent--all the same.
xi) As to the fact of evolution--the fossil record, I can only speak as a layman:
a) A global flood would be a fossil factory. I'm not trying to place a more precise construction on its impact than that, because I have no way of knowing the extent or pattern of the evidence generated by such an event. But that does introduce a very large wild card into the deck.
b) Although I've read and viewed a lot of high-level popularizations of evolutionary theory, I've never seen the raw evidence. Instead, what I'm presented with is a smattering of evidence that has been arranged in an evolutionary pattern. The pattern doesn't exist in the natural record itself, as given in that actual order. Rather, miscellaneous odds and ends scavenged from different sites at different levels are cobbled together and fitted together with evolutionary theory driving the reconstruction of the evidence rather than the raw evidence driving the construction of the theory.
c) Darwinians habitually and deliberately blur evidence of macroevolution with microevolution. Of course, I realize that, from their standpoint, it's a natural continuum--that there is no hard-and-fast distinction. That, however, assumes an evolutionary take on the evidence.
What would the evidence look like if they were to scrupulously segregate microevolutionary evidence from macroevolutionary evidence?
d) The fossil evidence for evolution would be clear evidence of evolution if it presented an evolutionary trend. Yet Darwinians also tell us that evolution is, in the nature of the case, undirected, and, therefore, without any consistent linear progression.
Again, I've said a bit more about the particulars in my "I'm glad" essay.
I've covered a lot of ground here in a very short space. But I do have supporting arguments in some of supplemental material I've referred you to.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Keeping ourselves unspotted from the world
The temptation of youth is to shoot for the moon, the temptation of age is to wax opportune. The young are far too otherworldly for the world below while the old are far too worldly for the other world above.
The political chameleon exemplifies the spirit of cynicism. He blends into the seasonal setting, whether snowy or stony. In the words of W. H. Auden, "Our researchers into Public Opinion are content that he held the proper opinions for the time of year; when there was peace, he was for peace; when there was war, he went." Or as Groucho Marx more succinctly put it, "Those are my principles. If you don't like them, I have others."
But the political stargazer exemplifies the spirit of utopianism. You can see this is Marxism, which is a secularized brand of Messianism.
You can see this in the social gospel.
You can see this in the overrealized eschatology of the Anabaptist, for whom there is no intersection between the city of God and city of man, but only a grand chasm separating Dis from the New Jerusalem.
You can see this in Platonism, with its hiatus between spotless universals and bespotted particulars.
As I've had occasion to say before, the lesser of two evils is not synonymous with the lesser of two sins. Every political candidate is a sinner, and there are degrees of personal evil.
Choosing between the lesser of two evils is not necessarily a choice between moral evils. If I see a wildfire approaching my home, and I don't have time to save both my five-year old son and the family dog, I have three choices:
i) I can throw up my hands and let nature takes its course, on the theory that any compromise is a moral compromise;
ii) if I were a member of PETA, I'd save the family dog, lest I commit the crime of speciesism my favoring my own flesh-and-blood;
iii) if I were a Christian, I'd sadly consign my pet dog to the flames while I fled with my son in arms. This is not a choice between right and wrong, but better and best.
The only solution is to have a carefully thought-out value-system. For further reflection, I'd refer readers to my essay (posted at Triablogue) on "The Art of Christian compromise," as well as:
http://www.chalcedon.edu/forum/viewtopic.php?p=55#55
The political chameleon exemplifies the spirit of cynicism. He blends into the seasonal setting, whether snowy or stony. In the words of W. H. Auden, "Our researchers into Public Opinion are content that he held the proper opinions for the time of year; when there was peace, he was for peace; when there was war, he went." Or as Groucho Marx more succinctly put it, "Those are my principles. If you don't like them, I have others."
But the political stargazer exemplifies the spirit of utopianism. You can see this is Marxism, which is a secularized brand of Messianism.
You can see this in the social gospel.
You can see this in the overrealized eschatology of the Anabaptist, for whom there is no intersection between the city of God and city of man, but only a grand chasm separating Dis from the New Jerusalem.
You can see this in Platonism, with its hiatus between spotless universals and bespotted particulars.
As I've had occasion to say before, the lesser of two evils is not synonymous with the lesser of two sins. Every political candidate is a sinner, and there are degrees of personal evil.
Choosing between the lesser of two evils is not necessarily a choice between moral evils. If I see a wildfire approaching my home, and I don't have time to save both my five-year old son and the family dog, I have three choices:
i) I can throw up my hands and let nature takes its course, on the theory that any compromise is a moral compromise;
ii) if I were a member of PETA, I'd save the family dog, lest I commit the crime of speciesism my favoring my own flesh-and-blood;
iii) if I were a Christian, I'd sadly consign my pet dog to the flames while I fled with my son in arms. This is not a choice between right and wrong, but better and best.
The only solution is to have a carefully thought-out value-system. For further reflection, I'd refer readers to my essay (posted at Triablogue) on "The Art of Christian compromise," as well as:
http://www.chalcedon.edu/forum/viewtopic.php?p=55#55
Monday, October 25, 2004
Now & then
You always have unbelievers who deny the historicity of the Bible. In our own day, the Jesus Seminar is the best-known example, but this is a perennial phenomenon.
Now, it's nothing short of amazing, when you consider how little interest the ancient world took in Israel or the NT church, and how little of this has even survived, that we have any corroboration whatsoever, much less as much as we do.
But despite that, you have unbelievers who deny the historicity of Scripture because it allegedly contradicts something in the ancient record.
Actually, the number of examples in which this is the case is, again, remarkably small (e.g., the census of Quirinius, the location of Ai). But to put this in perspective, imagine if, a hundred years from now, our knowledge of the Bush administration came from Michael Moore, the BBC or the NYT?
Even though I'm an American, contemporaneous in time and contiguous in place with the events, I have to spend more time than I like, and probably more time than I should, getting the facts straight. I've seen these events unfolding in live, real-time footage, and yet I still need multiple sources to correct for all the distortion.
To take another example, I'm a native of the Greater Seattle area. Some TV dramas are putatively set in Seattle, but for budgetary reasons are really filmed in Vancouver BC--with a few location shots to establish the putative setting.
I know Seattle like the back of my own hand. I don't have the same feel for Vancouver, but I've been there often enough that I can tell the difference.
Sometimes I tune into one of these shows just to test my memory. In one recent show, the pilot episode was obviously shot in Seattle, but the next episode was clearly shot in Vancouver.
Apparently, the director shot the pilot episode on site to fix the tell-tale landmarks in the viewer's mind, hoping that this splash of local color would carry-over when he pulled up stakes and moved the camera crew north of the border.
In another TV series, one episode was supposedly set in Spokane. But the greenery was much too lush for E. Washington.
On yet another TV, most of the show was filmed on location in Fall City, North Bend, and Snoqualmie, but the opening scene was clearly shot evidently shot elsewhere--on Whidbey Island, I was later to learn. A native would never mistake the Snoqualmie River for Puget Sound.
Now this sort of comparison demands a very broad and minute knowledge of the locale--not only in space, but also in time. If we were to go backward or forward 50-100 years, my indigenous knowledge would be useless--for the landscape and cityscape would be so greatly altered.
Canadian actors can often pass for Americans, but I can tell the difference between the American actor and the Canadian actor playing an American. The difference is very subtle. The Canadian accent isn't conspicuous, like the working class or uppercrust British accent. It's not that it sounds like something else--something identifiably foreign. Rather, it just doesn't sound quite like idiomatic American pronunciation. It's a bit classier…not as nasal or slurvian…the intonation and placement are a shade different.
Okay, my point is this: here we have so-called scholars, writing some 2000-3500 years after the fact, based on some historical or semi-historical source, which is, at best, within the general vicinity of the Biblical event, although it may be hundred or more years before or after the fact, and a hundred or more miles distant from the event. And that is even before we factor in the ancient historian's private bias or official agenda. Say, he's a court historian. Or a political rival of so-and-so.
It is quite possible, under such circumstances, that you could have a genuine discrepancy, or misidentification, between two sources (biblical and extra-biblical) without any prejudice to the veracity of Scripture.
Now, it's nothing short of amazing, when you consider how little interest the ancient world took in Israel or the NT church, and how little of this has even survived, that we have any corroboration whatsoever, much less as much as we do.
But despite that, you have unbelievers who deny the historicity of Scripture because it allegedly contradicts something in the ancient record.
Actually, the number of examples in which this is the case is, again, remarkably small (e.g., the census of Quirinius, the location of Ai). But to put this in perspective, imagine if, a hundred years from now, our knowledge of the Bush administration came from Michael Moore, the BBC or the NYT?
Even though I'm an American, contemporaneous in time and contiguous in place with the events, I have to spend more time than I like, and probably more time than I should, getting the facts straight. I've seen these events unfolding in live, real-time footage, and yet I still need multiple sources to correct for all the distortion.
To take another example, I'm a native of the Greater Seattle area. Some TV dramas are putatively set in Seattle, but for budgetary reasons are really filmed in Vancouver BC--with a few location shots to establish the putative setting.
I know Seattle like the back of my own hand. I don't have the same feel for Vancouver, but I've been there often enough that I can tell the difference.
Sometimes I tune into one of these shows just to test my memory. In one recent show, the pilot episode was obviously shot in Seattle, but the next episode was clearly shot in Vancouver.
Apparently, the director shot the pilot episode on site to fix the tell-tale landmarks in the viewer's mind, hoping that this splash of local color would carry-over when he pulled up stakes and moved the camera crew north of the border.
In another TV series, one episode was supposedly set in Spokane. But the greenery was much too lush for E. Washington.
On yet another TV, most of the show was filmed on location in Fall City, North Bend, and Snoqualmie, but the opening scene was clearly shot evidently shot elsewhere--on Whidbey Island, I was later to learn. A native would never mistake the Snoqualmie River for Puget Sound.
Now this sort of comparison demands a very broad and minute knowledge of the locale--not only in space, but also in time. If we were to go backward or forward 50-100 years, my indigenous knowledge would be useless--for the landscape and cityscape would be so greatly altered.
Canadian actors can often pass for Americans, but I can tell the difference between the American actor and the Canadian actor playing an American. The difference is very subtle. The Canadian accent isn't conspicuous, like the working class or uppercrust British accent. It's not that it sounds like something else--something identifiably foreign. Rather, it just doesn't sound quite like idiomatic American pronunciation. It's a bit classier…not as nasal or slurvian…the intonation and placement are a shade different.
Okay, my point is this: here we have so-called scholars, writing some 2000-3500 years after the fact, based on some historical or semi-historical source, which is, at best, within the general vicinity of the Biblical event, although it may be hundred or more years before or after the fact, and a hundred or more miles distant from the event. And that is even before we factor in the ancient historian's private bias or official agenda. Say, he's a court historian. Or a political rival of so-and-so.
It is quite possible, under such circumstances, that you could have a genuine discrepancy, or misidentification, between two sources (biblical and extra-biblical) without any prejudice to the veracity of Scripture.
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