dimarts, 1 de setembre de 2015

The Planetara was still in the earth’s shadow. The firmament––black interstellar space with its blazing white, red and yellow stars––lay spread around us. The moon, with nearly all its disc illumined, hung, a great silver ball, over 317 our bow quarter. Behind it, to one side, Mars floated like the red tip of a smoldering cigarillo in the blackness. The earth, behind our stern, was dimly, redly visible––a giant sphere, etched with the configurations of its oceans and continents. Upon one limb a touch of the sunlight hung on the mountain-tops with a crescent red-yellow sheen. And then we plunged from the cone-shadow. The sun, with the leaping Corona, burst through the blackness behind us. The earth lighted into a huge, thin crescent with hooked cusps.I have been thinking that if, during one of those long winter evenings at Valley Forge, someone had placed in George Washington’s hands one of our present day best sellers, the illustrious Father of our Country would have read it with considerable emotion. I do not mean what we call a story of science, or fantasy––just a novel of action, adventure and romance. The sort of thing you and I like to read, 307 but do not find amazing in any way at all. Black mutiny and brigandage stalk the Space-ship Planetara as she speeds to the Moon to pick up a fabulously rich cache of radium-ore. But I fancy that George Washington would have found it amazing. Don’t you? It might picture, for instance, a factory girl at a sewing machine. George Washington would be amazed at a sewing machine. And the girl, journeying in the subway to and from her work! Stealing an opportunity to telephone her lover at the noon hour; going to the movies in the evening, or listening to a radio. And there might be a climax, perhaps, with the girl and the villain in a transcontinental railway Pullman, and the hero sending frantic telegrams, or telephoning the train, and then chasing it in his airplane. George Washington would have found it amazing! And I am wondering how you and I would feel if someone were to give us now a book of ordinary adventure of the sort which will be published a hundred and fifty years hence. I have been trying to imagine such a book and the nature of its contents.Let us imagine it together. Suppose we walk down Fifth Avenue, a pleasant spring morning of May, 2080. Fifth Avenue, no doubt, will be there. I don’t know whether the New York Public Library will be there or not. We’ll assume that it is, and that it has some sort of books, printed, or in whatever fashion you care to imagine. The young man library attendant is surprised at our curiously antiquated aspect. We look as though we were dressed for some historical costume ball. We talk old-fashioned English, like actors in an historical play of the 1930 period. But we get the book. The attendant assures us it is a good average story of action and adventure. Nothing remarkable, but he read it himself, and found it interesting. We thank him and take the book. But we find that the language in which it is written is too strange for comfortable reading. And it names so many extraordinary things so casually! As though we knew all about them, which we certainly do not! So we take it to the kind-hearted librarian in the language division. He modifies it to old-fashioned English of 1930, and he puts occasional footnotes to help explain some of the things we might not understand. Why he should bother to do this for us I don’t know; but let us assume that he does. And now we take the book home––in the pneumatic tube, or aerial moving sidewalk, or airship, or whatever it is we take to get home. And now that we are home, let’s read the book. It ought to be interesting. CHAPTER I Tells of the Grantline Moon Expedition and of the Mysterious Martian Who Followed Us in the City Corridor One may write about oneself and still not be an egoist. Or so, at least, they tell me. My narrative went broadcast with a fair success. It was pantomimed and the public flashed me a reasonable approval. And so my disc publishers have suggested that I record it in more permanent form. I introduce myself, begging grace that I intrude upon your busy minutes, with my only excuse that perhaps I may amuse you. For what the commercial sellers of my pictured version were pleased to blare as my handsome face, I ask your indulgence. My feminine audience of the pantomimes was undoubtedly graciously pleased at my personality and physical aspect. That I am “tall as a Viking of old”––and “handsome as a young Norse God”––is very pretty talk in the selling of my product. But I deplore its intrusion into the personality of this, my recorded narrative. And so now, for preface, to all my audience I do give earnest assurance that Gregg Haljan is no conceited zebra, handsomely striped by nature, and proud of it. Not so. I am, I do beg you to believe, a very humble fellow, striving for your approval, hoping only to entertain you. My introduction: My name, Gregg Haljan. My age, twenty-five years. I was, at the time my narrative begins, Third Officer on the Space-Ship Planetara. Our line was newly established; in 2070, to be exact, following the modern improvements of the Martel Magnetic Levitation.[1] Our ship, whose home port was Great-New York, carried mail and passenger traffic to and from both Venus and Mars. Of astronomical necessity, our flights were irregular. This spring, with the two other planets both close to the earth, we were making two complete round trips. We had just arrived in Great-New York, this May evening, from Grebhar, Venus Free State. With only five hours in port 309 here, we were departing the same night at the zero hour for Ferrok-Shahn, capital of the Martian Union. We were no sooner at the landing stage than I found a code-flash summoning Dan Dean and me to Divisional Detective Headquarters. Dan “Snap” Dean was one of my closest friends. He was radio-helio operator of the Planetara. A small, wiry, red-headed chap, with a quick, ready laugh and a wit that made everyone like him. The summons to Detective-Colonel Halsey’s office surprised us. Snap eyed me. “You haven’t been opening any treasury vaults, have you, Gregg?” “He wants you, also,” I retorted. He laughed. “Well, he can roar at me like a traffic switchman and my private life will remain my own.” We could not think why we should be wanted. It was the darkness of mid-evening when we left the Planetara for Halsey’s office. It was not a long trip. We went direct in the upper monorail, descending into the subterranean city at Park-Circle 30. We had never been to Halsey’s office before. We found it to be a gloomy, vaultlike place in one of the deepest corridors. The door lifted. “Gregg Haljan and Daniel Dean.” The guard stood aside. “Come in.” I own that my heart was unduly thumping as we entered. The door dropped behind us. It was a small blue-lit apartment––a steel-lined room like a vault. Colonel Halsey sat at his desk. And the big, heavy-set, florid Captain Carter––our commander of the Planetara––was here. That surprised us: we had not seen him leave the ship. Halsey smiled at us gravely. Captain Carter said, “Sit down, lads.” We took the seats. There was an alarming solemnity about this. If I had been guilty of anything that I could think of, it would have been frightening. But Halsey’s first words reassured me. “It’s about the Grantline Moon Expedition. In spite of our secrecy, the news has gotten out. We want to know how. Can you tell us?” Captain Carter’s huge bulk––he was about as tall as I am––towered over us as we sat before Halsey’s desk. “If you lads have told anyone––said anything––let slip the slightest hint about it––” Snap smiled with relief; but he turned solemn at once. “I haven’t. Not a word!” “Nor have I,” I declared. The Grantline Moon Expedition! We had not thought of that as a reason for this summons. Johnny Grantline was a close friend to us both. He had organized an exploring expedition to the Moon. Uninhabited, with its bleak, forbidding, airless, waterless surface, the Moon––even though so close to the Earth––was seldom visited. No regular ship ever stopped there. A few exploring parties of recent years had come to grief. But there was a persistent rumor that upon the Moon, mineral riches of fabulous wealth were awaiting discovery. The thing had already caused some interplanetary complications. The aggressive Martians would be only too glad to explore the Moon. But the U.S.W.[2] definitely warned them away. The Moon was World Territory, we announced, and we would protect it as such. The threatened conflict between the Earth and Mars had come to nothing. There was, this year of 2079, a thorough amity between all three of the inhabited planets. It still holds, and I pray that it may always hold. There was, nevertheless, a realization by our government, that whatever riches might be upon the Moon should be seized at once and held by some reputable Earth Company. And when Johnny 310 Grantline applied, with his father’s wealth and his own scientific record of attainment, the government was only too glad to grant him its writ. The Grantline Expedition had started six months ago. The Martian government had acquiesced in our ultimatum, yet brigands have been known to be financed under cover of a governmental disavowal. And so the expedition was kept secret. My words need give no offense to any Martian who comes upon them. I refer to the history of our earth only. The Grantline Expedition was on the Moon now. No word had come from it. One could not flash helios even in code without letting all the universe know that explorers were on the Moon. And why they were there, anyone could easily guess. And now Colonel Halsey was telling us that the news was abroad! Captain Carter eyed us closely; his flashing eyes under the white bushy brows would pry a secret from anyone. “You’re sure? A girl of Venus, perhaps, with her cursed, seductive lure! A chance word, with you lads befuddled by alcolite?” We assured him we had been careful. By the heavens, I know that I had been. Not a whisper, even to Snap, of the name Grantline in six months or more. Captain Carter added abruptly, “We’re insulated here, Halsey?” “Yes, talk as freely as you like. An eavesdropping ray will never get into these walls.” They questioned us. They were satisfied at last that, though the secret had escaped, we had not done it. Hearing it discussed, it occurred to me to wonder why Carter was concerned. I was not aware that he knew of Grantline’s venture. I learned now the reason why the Planetara, upon each of her voyages, had managed to pass fairly close to the Moon. It had been arranged with Grantline that if he wanted help or had any important message, he was to flash it locally to our passing ship. And this Snap knew, and had never mentioned it, even to me. Halsey was saying, “Well, we can’t blame you, but the secret is out.” Snap and I regarded each other. What could anyone do? What would anyone dare do? Captain Carter said abruptly, “Look here, lads, this is my chance now to talk plainly to you. Outside, anywhere outside these walls, an eavesdropping ray may be upon us. You know that? One may never even dare whisper since that accursed ray was developed.” Snap opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. My heart was pounding. Captain Carter went on, “I know I can trust you two more than anyone else under me on the Planetara––” “What do you mean by that?” I demanded. “What––” He interrupted me. “Nothing at all but what I say.” Halsey smiled grimly. “What he means, Haljan, is that things are not always what they seem these days. One cannot always tell a friend from an enemy. The Planetara is a public vessel. You have––how many is it, Carter?––thirty or forty passengers this trip to-night?” “Thirty-eight,” said Carter. “There are thirty-eight people listed for the flight to Ferrok-Shahn to-night,” Halsey said slowly. “And some may not be what they seem.” He raised his thin dark hand. “We have information––” He paused. “I confess, we know almost nothing––hardly more than enough to alarm us.” Captain Carter interjected, “I want you and Dean to be on your guard. Once on the Planetara it is difficult for us to talk openly, but be watchful. I will arrange for us to be doubly armed.” Vague, perturbing words! Halsey said, “They tell me George Prince is listed for the voyage. I am suggesting, 311 Haljan, that you keep your eye especially upon him. Your duties on the Planetara leave you comparatively free, don’t they?” “Yes,” I agreed. With the first and second officers on duty, and the captain aboard, my routine was more or less that of an understudy. I said, “George Prince! Who is he?” “A mechanical engineer,” said Halsey. “An under-official of the Earth Federated Radium Corporation. But he associates with bad companions––particularly Martians.” I had never heard of this George Prince, though I was familiar with the Federated Radium Corporation, of course. A semi-government trust, which controlled virtually the entire Earth supply of radium. “He was in the Automotive Department,” Carter put in. “You’ve heard of the Federated Radium Motor?” We had, of course. A recent Earth invention which promised to revolutionize the automotive industry. An engine of a new type, using radium as its fuel. Snap demanded, “What in the stars has this got to do with Johnny Grantline?” “Much,” said Halsey quietly, “or perhaps nothing. But George Prince some years ago mixed in rather unethical transactions. We had him in custody once. He is known now as unusually friendly with several Martians in New York of bad reputation.” “Well––” began Snap. “What you don’t know,” Halsey went on quietly, “is that Grantline expects to find radium on the Moon.” We gasped. “Exactly,” said Halsey. “The ill-fated Ballon Expedition thought they had found it on the Moon some years ago. A new type of ore, as rich in radium as our gold-bearing sands are rich in gold. Ballon’s first samples gave uranium atoms with a fair representation of ionium and thorium. A richly radio-active ore. A lode of the pure radium is there somewhere, without doubt.”

I pressed the danger signal, giving our location to the nearest operator. In a second or two we got the light. The street in all this neighborhood burst into a brilliant actinic glare. The thing menacing us was revealed! A figure in a black cloak, crouching thirty feet away across the corridor. Snap was on his feet. His voice rang shrilly, “There it is! Give it a shot, Gregg!”
Snap was unarmed, but he flung his hands out menacingly. The figure, which may perhaps not have been aware of our city safeguard, was taken wholly by surprise. A human figure. Seven feet tall, at the least, and therefore, I judged, doubtless a Martian man. The black cloak covered his head. He took a step toward us, hesitated, and then turned in confusion.
Snap’s shrill voice was bringing help. The whine of a street guard’s alarm whistle nearby sounded. The figure was making off! My pencil-ray was in my hand and I pressed its switch. The tiny heat-ray stabbed through the glare, but I missed. The figure stumbled, but did not fall. I saw a bare gray arm come from the cloak, flung up to maintain its balance. Or perhaps my pencil-ray of heat had seared the arm. The gray-skinned arm of a Martian.
Snap was shouting, “Give him another!” But the figure passed beyond the actinic glare and vanished.
We were detained in the turmoil of the corridor for ten minutes or more with official explanations. Then a message from Halsey released us. The Martian who had been following us in his invisible cloak was never caught.
We escaped from the crowd at last and made our way back to the Planetara, where the passengers were already assembling for the outward Martian voyage.

CHAPTER II

A Fleeting Glance––”

I stood on the turret-balcony of the Planetara with Captain Carter and Dr. Frank, the ship surgeon, watching the arriving passengers. It was close to the zero hour: the level of the 314 stage was a turmoil of confusion. The escalators, with the last of the freight aboard, were folded back. But the stage was jammed with the incoming passenger baggage: the interplanetary customs and tax officials with their X-ray and Zed-ray paraphernalia and the passengers themselves, lined up for the export inspection.
At this height, the city lights lay spread in a glare of blue and yellow beneath us. The individual local planes came dropping like birds to our stage. Thirty-eight passengers for this flight to Mars, but that accursed desire of every friend and relative to speed the departing voyager brought a hundred or more extra people to crowd our girders and bring added difficulty to everybody.
Carter was too absorbed in his duties to stay with us long. But here in the turret Dr. Frank and I found ourselves at the moment with nothing much to do but watch.
“Think we’ll get away on time, Gregg?”
“No,” I said. “And this of all voyages––”
I checked myself, with thumping heart. My thoughts were so full of what Halsey and Carter had told us that it was difficult to rein my tongue. Yet here in the turret, unguarded by insulation, I could say nothing. Nor would I have dared mention the Grantline Moon Expedition to Dr. Frank. I wondered what he knew of this affair. Perhaps as much as I––perhaps nothing.

He was a thin, dark, rather smallish man of fifty, this ship’s surgeon, trim in his blue and white uniform. I knew him well: we had made several flights together. An American––I fancy of Jewish ancestry. A likable man, and a skillful doctor and surgeon. He and I had always been good friends.
“Crowded,” he said. “Johnson says thirty-eight. I hope they’re experienced travelers. This pressure sickness is a rotten nuisance––keeps me dashing around all night assuring frightened women they’re not going to die. Last voyage, coming out of the Venus atmosphere––”
He plunged into a lugubrious account of his troubles with space-sick voyagers. But I was in no mood to listen. My gaze was down on the spider incline, up which, over the bend of the ship’s sleek, silvery body, the passengers and their friends were coming in little groups. The upper deck was already jammed with them.
The Planetara, as flyers go, was not a large vessel. Cylindrical of body, forty feet maximum beam, and two hundred and seventy-five feet in overall length. The passenger superstructure––no more than a hundred feet long––was set amidships. A narrow deck, metallic-enclosed, and with large bulls-eye windows, encircled the superstructure. Some of the cabins opened directly onto the deck. Others had doors to the interior corridors. There were half a dozen small but luxurious public rooms.

The rest of the vessel was given to freight storage and the mechanism and control compartments. Forward of the passenger structure the deck level continued under the cylindrical dome-roof to the bow. The forward watch-tower observatory was here; officers’ cabins; Captain Carter’s navigating rooms and Dr. Frank’s office. Similarly, under the stern-dome, was the stern watch-tower and a series of power compartments.
Above the superstructure a confusion of spider bridges, ladders and balconies were laced like a metal network. The turret in which Dr. Frank and I now stood was perched here. Fifty feet away, like a bird’s nest, Snap’s instrument room stood clinging to the metal bridge. The dome-roof, with the glassite windows rolled back now, rose in a mound-peak to cover this highest middle portion of the vessel.
Below, in the main hull, blue-lit metal corridors ran the entire length 315 of the ship. Freight storage compartments; gravity control rooms; the air renewal systems; heater and ventilators and pressure mechanisms––all were located there. And the kitchens, stewards’ compartments, and the living quarters of the crew. We carried a crew of sixteen, this voyage, exclusive of the navigating officers, and the purser, Snap Dean, and Dr. Frank.

The passengers coming aboard seemed a fair representation of what we usually had for the outward voyage to Ferrok-Shahn. Most were Earth people––and returning Martians. Dr. Frank pointed out one. A huge Martian in a gray cloak. A seven-foot fellow.
“His name is Set Miko,” Dr. Frank remarked. “Ever heard of him?”
“No,” I said. “Should I?”
“Well––” The doctor suddenly checked himself, as though he were sorry he had spoken.
“I never heard of him,” I repeated slowly.
An awkward silence fell suddenly between us.
There were a few Venus passengers. I saw one of them presently coming up the incline, and recognized her. A girl traveling alone. We had brought her from Grebhar, last voyage but one. I remembered her. An alluring sort of girl, as most of them are. Her name was Venza. She spoke English well. A singer and dancer who had been imported to Great-New York to fill some theatrical engagement. She’d made quite a hit on the Great White Way.
She came up the incline, with the carrier ahead of her. Gazing up, she saw Dr. Frank and me at the turret window and waved her white arm in greeting. And flashed us a smile.
Dr. Frank laughed. “By the gods of the airways, there’s Alta Venza! You saw that look, Gregg? That was for me, not you.”
“Reasonable enough,” I retorted. “But I doubt it––the Venza was nothing if not impartial.”

I wondered what could be taking Venza now to Mars. I was glad to see her. She was diverting. Educated. Well-traveled. Spoke English with a colloquial, theatrical manner more characteristic of Great-New York than of Venus. And for all her light banter, I would rather put my trust in her than any Venus girl I had ever met.
The hum of the departing siren was sounding. Friends and relatives of the passengers were crowding the exit incline. The deck was clearing. I had not seen George Prince come aboard. And then I thought I saw him down on the landing stage, just arrived from a private tube-car. A small, slight figure. The customs men were around him: I could only see his head and shoulders. Pale, girlishly handsome face; long, black hair to the base of his neck. He was bareheaded, with the hood of his traveling-cloak pushed back.
I stared, and I saw that Dr. Frank was also gazing down. But neither of us spoke.
Then I said upon impulse, “Suppose we go down to the deck, Doctor?”
He acquiesced. We descended to the lower room of the turret and clambered down the spider ladder to the upper deck-level. The head of the arriving incline was near us. Preceded by two carriers who were littered with hand-baggage, George Prince was coming up the incline. He was closer now. I recognized him from the type we had seen in Halsey’s office.

And then, with a shock, I saw it was not so. This was a girl coming aboard. An arch-light over the incline showed her clearly when she was half way up. A girl with her hood pushed back; her face framed in thick black hair. I saw now it was not a man’s cut of hair; but long braids coiled up under the dangling hood.
Dr. Frank must have remarked my amazed expression.
“Little beauty, isn’t she?”
“Who is she?”
We were standing back against the 316 wall of the superstructure. A passenger was near us––the Martian whom Dr. Frank had called Miko. He was loitering here, quite evidently watching this girl come aboard. But as I glanced at him he looked away and casually sauntered off.
The girl came up and reached the deck. “I am in A 22,” she told the carrier. “My brother came aboard two hours ago.”
Dr. Frank answered my whisper. “That’s Anita Prince.”
She was passing quite close to us on the deck, following the carrier, when she stumbled and very nearly fell. I was nearest to her. I leaped forward and caught her as she went down.
“Oh!” she cried.
With my arm about her, I raised her up and set her upon her feet again. She had twisted her ankle. She balanced herself upon it. The pain of it eased up in a moment.
“I’m––all right––thank you!”

In the dimness of the blue-lit deck, I met her eyes. I was holding her with my encircling arm. She was small and soft against me. Her face, framed in the thick, black hair, smiled up at me. Small, oval face––beautiful––yet firm of chin, and stamped with the mark of its own individuality. No empty-headed beauty, this.
“I’m all right, thank you very much––”
I became conscious that I had not released her. I felt her hands pushing at me. And then it seemed that for an instant she yielded and was clinging. And I met her startled, upflung gaze. Eyes like a purple night with the sheen of misty starlight in them.
I heard myself murmuring, “I beg your pardon. Yes, of course!” I released her.
She thanked me again and followed the carrier along the deck. She was limping slightly from the twisted ankle.
An instant, while she had clung to me––and I had held her. A brief flash of something, from her eyes to mine––from mine back to hers. The poets write that love can be born of such a glance. The first meeting, across all the barriers of which love springs unsought, unbidden––defiant, sometimes. And the troubadours of old would sing: “A fleeting glance; a touch; two wildly beating hearts––and love was born.”
I think, with Anita and me, it must have been like that....
I stood gazing after her, unconscious of Dr. Frank, who was watching me with his humorous smile. And presently, no more than a quarter beyond the zero hour, the Planetara got away. With the dome-windows battened tightly, we lifted from the landing stage and soared over the glowing city. The phosphorescence of the electronic tubes was like a comet’s tail behind us as we slid upward.
At the trinight hour the heat of our atmospheric passage was over. The passengers had all retired. The ship was quiet, with empty decks and dim, silent corridors. Vibrationless, with the electronic engines cut off and only the hum of the Martel magnetizers to break the unnatural stillness. We were well beyond the earth’s atmosphere, heading out in the cone-path of the earth’s shadow,in the direction of the moon.

10 comentaris:

  1. http://www.gutenberg.org/wiki/Science_Fiction_%28Bookshelf%291 de setembre de 2015 a les 11:27

    Yes. My stateroom door was open. I was sitting with a cigarillo. I saw the purser in the smoking room. He was visible from––”

    “Wait! Venza, that prowler went through the smoking room!”

    “I know he did. I could hear him.”

    “Did the purser hear him?”

    “Of course. The purser looked up, followed the sound with his gaze. I thought that was queer. He never made a move. And then you came along and he acted innocent. Why? What’s going on, that’s what I want to know!”

    I held my breath. “Venza, where did the prowler run to? Can you––”

    She whispered calmly, “Into A 20. I saw the door open and close––I even think I could see the blurred outline of him. Those magnetic cloaks!” She added, “Why should George Prince be sneaking around with you after him? And the purser acting innocent? And who is this George Prince, anyway?”

    The huge Martian, Miko, with his sister Moa came strolling along the deck. They nodded as they passed us.

    I whispered, “I can’t explain anything now. But you’re right, Venza: there is something going on. Listen! Whatever you learn––anything you encounter which looks unusual––will you tell me? I––well, I do trust you––really I do!––but the thing isn’t mine to tell.”

    The somber pools of her eyes were shining. “You are very lovable, Gregg. I won’t question you.” She was trembling with excitement. “Whatever it is, I want to be in it. Here’s something I can tell you now. We’ve two high-class gold-leaf gamblers aboard. Did you know that?”

    “No. Who are––”

    “Shac and Dud Ardley. Let me state every detective in Great-New York knows them. They had a wonderful game with that Englishman, Sir Arthur Coniston, this morning. Stripped him 326 of half a pound of eight-inch leaves––a neat little stack. A crooked game, of course. Those fellows are more nimble-fingered than Rance Rankin ever dared to be!”

    I sat staring at her. She was a mine of information, this girl.

    “And Gregg, I tried my charms on Shac and Dud. Nice men, but dumb. Whatever’s going on, they’re not in it. They wanted to know what kind of a ship this was. Why? Because Shac has a cute little eavesdropping microphone of his own. He had it working in the night last night. He overheard George Prince and that big giant Miko arguing about the moon!”

    I gasped. “Venza, softer!”

    Against all propriety of this public deck she pretended to drape herself upon me. Her hair smothered my face as her lips almost touched my ear.

    “Something about treasure on the moon––Shac couldn’t understand what. And they mentioned you. He didn’t hear what they said because the purser joined them.” Her whispered words tumbled over one another. “A hundred pounds of gold leaf––that’s the purser’s price. He’s with them, whatever it is. He promised to do something for them.”

    She stopped. “Well?” I prompted.

    “That’s all. Shac’s current was interrupted.”

    “Tell him to try it again, Venza! I’ll talk with him. No! I’d better let him alone. Can you get him to keep his mouth shut?”

    “I think he might do anything I told him. He’s a man.”

    “Find out what you can.”

    She sat away from me suddenly. “There’s Anita and George Prince.”

    They came to the corner of the deck, but turned back. Venza caught my look. And understood it.

    “So you love Anita Prince so much as that, Gregg?” Venza was smiling. “I wish you––I wish some man handsome as you would gaze after me like that.”

    She turned solemn. “You may be interested to know that she loves you. I could see it. I knew it when I mentioned you to her this morning.”

    “Me? Why, we’ve hardly spoken!”

    “Is it necessary? I never heard that it was.”

    I could not see Venza’s face; she stood up suddenly. And when I rose beside her, she whispered,

    “We should not be seen talking so long. I’ll find out what I can.”

    I stared after her slight robed figure as she turned into the lounge archway and vanished.

    ResponElimina
    Respostes
    1. NA PRECE SEBASTIANISTA ATÉ BRILHA FULGÊNCIO BATISTA Y ZALDIVAR SE CALHAR ...EM TODO O HOMEM CUJA CABEÇA MEREÇA MEDONHO CHAPÉU CANTAI VÓS CANTA TU E CANTO EU ....TODO O CHAPÉU TEU OU MEU MERECE prece PS PS MERECE PS PS MEU CORAÇÃO EXULTA EM SOCRATES OU MEU CU RAÇÃO TANTO FAX E A MINHA CARNE S'ÉLEVE OU SE LEVANTA POR SOCRATES OU POR IAHVÉ TANTO FAZ O NOME DO DEUS ....MA BOUCHE SE DILATE CONTRE NOS ENNEMIS ...CRIEZ SOCRATES TON SACRE NOM EST LE NOTRE VIANDE NOTRE EAU..CAR JE ME REJOUIS EN TOUT SALUT SOCRATES SOCRATES EN TOUT SALAUD SOCRATES SOCRATES POUR DIONYSIOS SOCRATES PERFUME OU PARFUM DE SYRAX ....EU IN VOCE DIONYSIOS SOCRATES SALUTANT RETENTISSANT ET HURLANT5 de setembre de 2015 a les 6:33

      TUDO PASSA E REPASSA NA PRECE NULA QUE VOS ANULA

      Elimina
    2. pássaras criadas a esmolas acreditam que parlapiar é doença é piar é grito mudo a que acudo
      Like · Reply · 1 min
      Pinto DeSusa Márinho na autofagia vazia toda a morte programada é nada e a apoptose do tozé é tudo neste entrudo com entrada na pintelheira da labregueira estouvada

      Elimina
  2. chintia se ofereceu pra dar uma mãozinha e deu nisso né....gente por chata mesmo Like · Reply · 6 mins Pinto DeSusa Márinho Antes de o fender ao phoder Antes de se afastar ao deitar Gosto d'ocê, pra acabar di começar Gosto d'ocê, pra começar a acabar Antes de entristecer e morrer E antes de se jogar a culpar Gosto de você, branquinha cuequinha Antes de envelhecer e feder Antes de se lembrar de cagar Gosto d'ocê agora pôrra Quando ocê voltar pra casa, pequena será grande Não há tristeza que valha a pena e não se mande5 de setembre de 2015 a les 17:52

    se mandou não

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  3. O MIAR NO COUTO OU MIAS NO COITO SÃO DADOS À LIBERDADE DE FICAR PRESOS? MAXARICA FUTRANECA PAXAROCA FUDANECA? NÃ É INVENTAR FILHA PRA INVENTARES TINHAS DE SAIR DA BASE DA RAIZ DA PALAVRA Like · Reply · 13 mins Pinto DeSusa Márinho LOGO SÓ EUSKAL Herria ezkerda chatarra txatar chorro txurru untxi há gana de criar algo novo sob os maias ,,,tu não és criativa ou mesmo criada das palavras és mais mulher a dias das letras parvas Like · Reply · 8 mins Pinto DeSusa Márinho repare-se que se txurru tungalo mabulu troximelkes mesmo metendo um macaco a bater com o caralho nas teclas não obtenho palavras novas todas elas existem numa lenguansa kuaixker Like · Reply · 6 mins Pinto DeSusa Márinho já mdtruity nfdj8fi9 4h hidj7vk8fvw476´lv são palavras alfanuméricas muy velhinhas Like · Reply · 5 mins Pinto DeSusa Márinho o carlos rosa oferece-se pra te ajudar a ser criativa nas palavras indo-te ao viegas não sejas piegas por amor à arte devia bastar-te Like · Reply · 3 mins Pinto DeSusa Márinho os não creativos têm obrigatoriamente de ser metidos na câmara de gás pra ver se aí funciona a creação de palavras Like · Reply · 2 mins Pinto DeSusa Márinho TU QUE COISAS COM PALAVRAS PRA DELAS TERES CREAÇÃO METES AS PALAVRAS MACHONAS À FRENTE E ATRÁS POIS NA CREAÇÃO DE PALAVRAS EM QUALQUER BURACO TANTO FAZ....PUÉS PUÉS5 de setembre de 2015 a les 18:22

    DA CRIAÇÃO DE PALAVRAS COM LETRAS PRETAS PATETAS NAS LETRAS BRANCAS QUE APAGAS

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  4. Hemileia vastatrix como toda a ferrugem provoca diminuição no sistema clorofílico reduzindo crescimento e produção7 de setembre de 2015 a les 17:59

    Angola 40 anos depois tal como são tomé já não é potência mundial in café é o que é

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    Respostes
    1. da VIOLÊNCIA POLÍTICA DOS TÁVORAS AO BUIÇA E DE CHUMBO NO SIDÓNIO À TENTATIVA DE DAR UM ESTALO NA MARINHA GRANDE DE SOARES OU ESCREVE-SE NA MÁRINHO GRANDE?

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  5. DA FILOSOFIA DOS CRISTÃOS DE BRUÇOS OU DE COSTAS NOS FACEBOOKS BRUTUS EM TODA A FILOSOFIA BARATA APOSTAS Like Comment Share10 de setembre de 2015 a les 14:30

    DAÍ A DIFICULDADE DE DISCUTIR A EDUCAÇÃO DOS PUTOS POIS TANTO COSTA QUE SÓ PERCEBE CONCANIM COMO COELHO QUE SÓ FALA MASSAMÁ NÃO ENTENDE ESTA GERAÇÃO DO INGLÊS TÉCNICO SÓ SOCRATES TEM PAIXÕES EDUCATIVAS SEMI-MORTAS OU SEMI-VIVAS

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  6. .a Alemanha é muito liberalizada quanto a muitas coisas EM 1971 FIRMAS ALEMÃS E INGLESAS PUNHAM BALANÇAS NAS FARMÁCIAS QUE POR UM ESCUDO DIZIAM O PESO DO PESSOAL NUMA GRAVAÇÃO E NO PORTO E EM LISBOA E NO ALGARVE AS PESSOAS NO VERÃO E NATAL DE 1971 FAZIAM FILAS E METIAM 1$00 NUMA BALANÇA QUE ERA VENDIDA EM LEASING PARA OUVIREM A BALANÇA RECITAR O SEU PESO 72 QUILOS 30 KG ETC ...E NISSO E EM MÁQUINAS FOTOGRÁFICAS E VOLKSWAGENS E EM TANTA TRETA COMO PAPEL PARA IMPRESSÃO EM GELATINA AS FOTOCÓPIAS DOS ANOS 70 QUE AS ESCOLAS COMPRAVAM ÀS TONELADAS ASSIM COMO O EXÉRCITO E OS TRIBUNAIS E NISSO DE VENDER CHINESICES AOS POVOS ATRASADOS MENTAIS DE TODO O MUNDO A ALEMANHA FEZ BEM ...PODE DE FACTO CHAMAR-SE A ISSO CIVILIZAÇÃO EXPLORAR OS MAIS FRACOS A TROCO DE UM VERNIZ CIVILIZACIONAL E ISSO FIZEMO-LO TAMBÉM NÓS DURANTE 500 ANOS E OS ALEMÃES TÊM MAIS EXPERIÊNCIA A FAZÊ-LO DO QUE NÓS POIS Do século XII ATÉ AOS PRIMEIROS ANOS DA Guerra dos Trinta Anos, a Liga hanseática dominou consideravelmente o sistema econômico da Europa e influenciou a vida de todas as cidades.11 de setembre de 2015 a les 17:57

    redes de dissolução anastomosadas

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  7. Rita Pereira Nem que fosse o que fosse, mas pelo menos nao sou mal educada! E vai chamar filha a quem te fez as orelhas.
    Gosto · Responder · 23 min

    Rita Pereira E no caminho aproveita e vê se consegues aprender a escrever português correctamente! E se for cigana qual é a tua?? És xenófobo ? São pessoas diferentes de ti? É por tristes como tu com mentalidades como a tua que o mundo não anda para a frente
    Gosto · Responder · 19 min

    Miguel Soares Rita Pereira filha é um expressão o mais provável é estares a responder a um homem que tem idade para ser teu pai ou teu avó. Acabas de dizer que nao és mal e educada e depois sais-te com essa "vai chamar filha a quem te fez as orelhas".. Afinal esqueces-te da educaçao..
    Gosto · Responder · 17 min · Editado

    Hugo Almeida Chama se Humor negro🌑
    Gosto · Responder · 16 min

    Rita Pereira Ai vai começar o filme.... Eu dei uma opinião e sou livre de a dar, onde e quando queira! Esse senhor é mal educado a partir do momento que esta a fazer pouco de pessoas que nao estao bem , e depois obviamente quando me chama filha e cigana.... Nao sou mal educada so lhe respondi a altura
    Gosto · Responder · 11 min · Editado

    Rita Pereira Miguel Soares pelo menos nao me meto nas conversas entre outras pessoas como fizeste agora!
    Gosto · Responder · 10 min

    Flipencosta Mark Shven tamos conversando nã te ouço e a quem te fez as orelhas deves chamar outro nome já quem faz as orelhas ós putos chama-lhes etc
    Gosto · Responder · 8 min

    Flipencosta Mark Shven se fosses cigana eras do povo assim és uma gadja estilo refugiada síria
    Gosto · Responder · 7 min

    Flipencosta Mark Shven e essa assumpción que se responde a um gajo ou a uma gadja com 99 anus na interneta é tude birtual e o civismo idem numa sociedade desigual ao civismo chama-se medo
    Gosto · Responder · 6 min

    Flipencosta Mark Shven e isto são comentários não conversas
    Gosto · Responder · 5 min

    Flipencosta Mark Shven conversa implica imediatismo de resposta e percepção ou audição do emissor da dita mensagem
    Gosto · Responder · 5 min

    Flipencosta Mark Shven de resto és inexistente como rita a página de facebook não é a de uma rapariga nem de um ser humano é uma construção e um robot tê.la-ia feito melhor ...e nisso reconhece-se a assinatura de uma página personalizada e na de uma virtualizada
    Gosto · Responder · 1 min

    Flipencosta Mark Shven não que interesse muito mas os comentários eram construídos para solicitar uma reacção e obviamente fisgou
    Gosto · Responder · 1 min

    Flipencosta Mark Shven de resto as raparigas raramente têm tanta testosterona pra gastar em cumentários

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