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diff --git a/58790-0.txt b/58790-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aaec635 --- /dev/null +++ b/58790-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,623 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58790 *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + A Cold Night for Crying + + BY MILTON LESSER + + _It's much easier to believe than + disbelieve, whether it's a truth or + an untruth, when you have to. And + when the brain and body are weak ..._ + + [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from + Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1954. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that + the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +The snow sifted silently down, clouds of white confetti in the glare of +the street lamps, mantling the streets with white, spilling softly from +laden, wind-stirred branches, drifting with the wind and embanking the +scars and stumps of buildings that remained of what had been the city. + +Mr. Friedlander trudged across the wide, quiet avenues, his bare, +balding head burrowed low in his tattered collar for warmth, chin +against chest, wet feet numb and stinging with cold inside his torn +overshoes which could not be replaced until next winter, and then only +if the Karadi did not decrease the clothing ration still further. + +All the way home, he conjured fantasies from the white, multi-shaped +exhalations of his breath. Here it was the smoke of a good +Havana-rolled cigar and there the warm hissing steam from a radiator +valve and later the magic-carpet clouds from the funnel of an ocean +liner that might take him to far, warm places the Karadi had not +reached. Almost, he thought he heard the great sonorous drone of the +ship's whistle, but it was the toot of an automobile horn as the +sleek vehicle came skidding around a corner, almost running down Mr. +Friedlander before it disappeared in the swirling flurries of snow. He +thought if he followed the tire tracks before the snow could cover them +he would discover in which section of the city these particular Karadi +lived, but he shook his fist instead, knowing the gesture would bring, +at worst, a reprimand. + +In the dim hallway of his tenement, smelling pungently of cabbage and +turnips--and from somewhere way in back the faint, unmistakable aroma +of beef--Mr. Friedlander shook the snow from his coat and stamped his +numb feet before he climbed the three dark flights to his apartment. At +each landing he would pause and look with longing and resentment at the +door of the unused elevator shaft, then shrug and wonder why the Karadi +had denied man even this simple luxury. + +On the floor below his own, Mr. Friedlander heard the unmistakable +crackling sound of a short-wave radio receiver. The fools! He wasn't +going to talk, he lost no love on the Karadi. But there were others. +There were neighbors, friends, brothers, even wives, there were the +obvious quislings you shunned and the less obvious ones you didn't +suspect until it was too late. One thing you never did was listen +to the short-wave radio so defiantly its crackling could be heard +not merely on the other side of the door but all the way out on the +landing. The punishment was death. + +Mr. Friedlander paused in front of his own door, where the odor of +strong yellow turnips assailed his nostrils. It was so unsatisfyingly +familiar, he almost gagged. The new generation hardly remembered the +delightful old foods, but if Mr. Friedlander shut his eyes and thought, +he could clearly smell steak and roast chicken and broiled lobster +swimming in butter and a dry red wine to wash everything down slowly, +so slowly he could taste every tiny morsel. + +He pushed open the door and began to shrug off his worn coat. "I'm +home," he said to the scabby walls, the gas range which had been +converted to wood when the Karadi suspended all public utilities, to +the bubbling pot which exuded the turnip smell, to the drab sofa, the +two wooden chairs, the table he had constructed from two old saw horses +and the planking he had found long ago after the Fourteenth Street Bomb. + +From the small bedroom, he heard sobbing. + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Friedlander blinked red-rimmed eyes at him and squeezed his hand, +wringing it as if it had been a wet rag. She was forty-four years old, +six years younger than Mr. Friedlander, with a face which once had been +comely but now was lined, gaunt and big-pored. She was even thinner +than Mr. Friedlander, but looked shapeless in her thick woolen sweater +and the baggy work trousers he had stolen from the quartermaster store +of the plant where he worked. + +"Try to tell me, Martha," he said. "It's good to talk." + +She looked at him mutely, opening her mouth to talk but swallowing +instead. + +"You tell me, Martha. There now." + +She managed to get the words out. "It's Freddie." + +Mr. Friedlander placed a tired arm about her shoulder. The feeling had +started in the pit of his stomach, like when their son George had died +of pneumonia two years ago this month. The Karadi had outlawed all +wonder drugs, all hospitals, all medical schools. Helpless, they had +watched George die, his big child eyes not understanding, asking for +help. Mr. Friedlander always wondered if he had died hating them. + +"People die and you see them. You know," Mrs. Friedlander said. "They +are sick and you can't do anything but try to nurse them, anyway. Or +the big Karadi cars run them down and you see the broken body. You see +them. Alive. Then dead. It's hard, so hard you want to stop living +too, but there's God and God shows you they are dead and you have the +memories, all the sweet ones. You know they're dead because you see +them dying. You can forget. In time, you forget. You have to forget +because otherwise you don't want to live, but you ... hold me. Hold me +tight." + +Mr. Friedlander patted her hair awkwardly. The Karadi not only condoned +but encouraged displays of simple emotion and for that reason Mr. +Friedlander tried to avoid them. "What are you trying to tell me?" he +asked. + +"Freddie. Freddie. His plane was shot down over the mountains, they +told me. Freddie is dead. Freddie." + +Mr. Friedlander stopped patting his wife's hair, stopped stroking the +tangles into a smooth glossiness. He bent down and carefully unbuckled +his torn overshoes, placing them carefully in a corner of the room. +Then he walked to the window and stared out at the snow sparkling in +wind-blown puffs under the street lamp which remained only because the +Karadi liked to drive their confiscated autos at night. "What are you +saying?" he asked his wife. + +"Just because they tell us Freddie is dead--" + +"Stop it. Don't say that." + +"Freddie is dead. Because they tell us, that's no reason to believe. +How can we believe? We saw Freddie alive, but now they tell us Freddie +is dead. Far away, two thousand miles. Over the mountains. Did we see +him die? He's dead. Oh, he's dead. But we'll never learn to live with +it. Don't you see? How can we believe? How can we know? We saw him +alive. Now he's dead." + +Freddie was flying a Karadi plane against the last strongholds of free +man in the Rocky Mountains. Not because Freddie had wanted to pilot +the dart-swift craft particularly, but because they had made him. The +Karadi announced their own human losses readily, almost as if they took +great pleasure in the impressive figures. "They told you this?" Mr. +Friedlander asked. + +"That Freddie's plane was shot down. That he is assumed dead." + +"You saw nothing in writing?" + +"They sent a man." + +"You knew him?" + +"No. He wore good clothing. He drove up in a sleek Karadi car." + +"Quisling." + +"Freddie died a hero's death, he said. Against the rebels." + +"Rebels? Trying to preserve their own freedom? Freedom which we lost +because the bombed cities couldn't survive?" + +"I only know what the man told me, but how can we ... how ... all my +life, always, forever, I will be praying and waiting for Freddie to +walk in, right behind you, through that door. We never saw him die. +They should at least send something. Some proof. Anything to make me +understand he is dead." + +Mr. Friedlander had been thinking the same thing. If you loved someone, +your son, all his life and then a stranger came and said he was dead +you could forget the stranger came and go on thinking of that someone, +your son, alive and not dead, but too busy to come and see you, eating +the food you could only dream about, sleeping in a warm bed, in some +clean place far away. Only it was like the cat he once had read about. +You took the cat and gave it food, catnip, but every time it ate you +also fed it electricity, a shock. It wanted to eat but it was afraid of +the electricity, the shock. It starved to death screeching from hunger +in a room full of food. If that was what the Karadi wanted, he would +say Freddie was dead. He would believe and laugh every time he saw them +because they thought he was screeching from hunger in a room full of +food. + +"Stop it," Mr. Friedlander told his wife. "You stop that. If they say +so, then Freddie is dead. We must put an announcement in the Karadi +newspaper and make plans for a funeral." + +"In all this snow? It's so cold." + +"Anyway." + +Mrs. Friedlander walked to the stove and stirred the bubbling turnip +water. "You come and eat your supper," she said. "We'll talk about +Freddie later." + +"There's nothing to talk about. Only the funeral." + +"Maybe he was lying. The stranger." + +"Stop that. It's what they want. They want us to be animals. They +want us never to know. Always doubting. Always clean in dirty places, +working hard, using all our energy to be only a little better than +animals. Every time you see a Karadi, you won't hate him. You'll think +maybe he's going to tell you some good news about Freddie. It was all a +mistake. They want that, too. They feed on our sorrow and despair and +confusion. There is a word for them and their invasion and why they are +here. They don't need us, our resources. They feed on what we feel. +They are a--a sadistic fungi." + +"Fred! Eat your supper and you'll feel better. You must be half frozen." + +"It's warmer in here." + +Mrs. Friedlander shivered, although she stood near the stove. "It's +still cold. I hope it's warm where Freddie is." + +He slapped her and was glad when she cried, then sorry, then glad +again when she came into his arms, sobbing. They would make funeral +arrangements in the morning. + +After supper a man from the Karadi newspaper visited them. He wore +a new overcoat and shining plastic overshoes and a bright scarf of +red wool around his neck. His face was plump, his cheeks rosy, his +well-groomed hair smelling of some expensive perfume when he removed +hat and earlaps. + +"Mr. and Mrs. Friedlander," he said, his voice like the dimly +remembered taste of pure maple syrup, "I bring you the heartfelt +sympathies of the Karadi Newspaper. If it is any consolation, know +that your son, Freddie Friedlander, Jr., died a hero's death against +the barbarians of the mountains." His nose was running with the cold; +he padded it daintily with a pale blue silk handkerchief. He offered +Mr. Friedlander a small, dry-crackling cigar, took one himself and +touched flame to them with a monogramed lighter. Mr. Friedlander +inhaled gratefully, allowing the unfamiliar smoke to sear his lungs +painfully before he exhaled a long blue plume at the ceiling. For Mrs. +Friedlander the man from the Karadi Newspaper had a small box of candy, +the chocolate frozen over with powdery white but, by the expression on +Mrs. Friedlander's face, succulent nevertheless. + +"At times like this," the man from the Karadi Newspaper said after he +had politely refused what was left of the yellow turnip mash, "it is +customary to place an ad in the newspaper in memory of the departed. +The cost, in such cases, is quite reasonable--benevolent, you might +say. Seven days of overtime for Mr. Friedlander." + +"But," said Mrs. Friedlander, "if we place the announcement in the +Karadi Newspaper, don't you see? We are admitting Freddie is dead." + +The man from the Karadi Newspaper cocked an eyebrow in practiced +surprise. "He is quite dead, Mrs. Friedlander." + +"What my wife means is that, well, we didn't see him die." + +"Then you don't believe the Karadi?" + +"That's not it at all," said Mr. Friedlander. "If Freddie is dead, it +is unhealthy not to believe. We want to believe. We find it difficult." + +"I understand," the man said. "I would suggest a large ad in that +case. Two weeks overtime, Mr. Friedlander. Write it yourself. Don't use +any of the forms. Write it from your heart, from what you feel deep +inside." + +"I suppose that is best," Mr. Friedlander admitted, secretly amazed +at his own objective reaction to his son's passing. The sorrow would +come later, he told himself. The grief, when it came, would be good. It +would wash them clean so they could live again. Even at the funeral. +He guessed, they would walk slowly with measured tread and be sad, but +they would expect Freddie to join them in their sadness, as if it were +a funeral but not his funeral at all. Mr. Friedlander was about to tell +this to the man from the Karadi Newspaper because he thought it was a +great truth and he had discovered it, when there was a knock on the +door. + +It was Mr. Davidson from downstairs on the second floor, a small old +man, just bones and clothing and a high voice, who lived alone in the +apartment where his wife had died four years before of old age. It +was said the Karadi wanted old men like Mr. Davidson to go on living +because they were unproductive and had to be cared for by younger +people who could hardly make ends meet, thus lowering the standard of +living. Everyone in the tenament took turns inviting Mr. Davidson in +for dinner. + +"Beautiful snow, isn't it?" Mr. Davidson demanded, puckering his dry +lips in a toothless grin. "Have you heard about Freddie? Have you heard +the news?" + +He seemed spitefully cheerful, Mr. Friedlander thought. Happy because +he had outlived a man two generations his junior? If, indeed, it was +such a case of sadistic glee--so like the Karadi themselves--Mr. +Friedlander made a mental note to stop inviting the old man to share +their dinner. + +"Yes, sir, great news," chirped Mr. Davidson. Then: "Who's your friend?" + +"He's from the Karadi Newspaper," Mrs. Friedlander explained. "Here to +see about placing an announcement in the paper." + +"Damned quisling," spat Mr. Davidson. The old folks certainly had +privileges. That remark would mean a month of overtime for Mr. +Friedlander, who turned earthenware kitchen pots on an archaic wheel. +All it earned Mr. Davidson was a scowl from the man from the Karadi +Newspaper. + +"What great news are you talking about?" the man wanted to know. + +"Great news? Who said anything about great news? Why don't you mind +your own business, anyway?" + +"You said it, old man. Great news, you said. I want to know." + +"Maybe I did and maybe I didn't." + +"You did." + +"Don't always remember. Just what were we talking about? Freddie +Friedlander, wasn't it?" + +"Yes." + +"Like I said, great news. We all don't get to die a hero's death. No, +sir. Lookit me, now. Die in bed one of these nights, just like that." +Claw-like fingers snapped and made a singularly dry sound. "Who'll +care? Who'll know until I don't show up for dinner one night? Great +news. Great thing to die a hero's death, I always say." + +The man from the Karadi Newspaper smiled. "I certainly misunderstood +you, old timer. I like your attitude. If the boy is dead, let's look at +the bright side of the picture." + +All at once, Mrs. Friedlander wailed Freddie's name and cupped her face +in coarse, work-hardened hands. "Freddie's dead," she sobbed. "Dead, +dead, dead...." + +Mr. Friedlander gulped and turned away. If he touched her now he would +break down too. He plopped a fork in the turnip mash and made little +tracks with the tines, criss-crossing them like the tracks in the +deserted railroad yards down by the river. + +"You see," the man from the Karadi Newspaper said, "that's exactly what +I said. The announcement is good for you. Let other people know about +Freddie and you'll be able to live with your terrible loss. This man +has been very helpful." + +"Please," Mr. Friedlander told him. "Not now." + +"But now is exactly the time." The man explored through his pockets and +found an announcement blank for Mr. Friedlander, a stiff yellow sheet +of paper folded over crisply three times, with words printed in upper +case letters and many blank lines to be filled in. Mr. Friedlander +read it, handed it back to the man from the Karadi Newspaper, who then +asked questions and filled in the blanks with a precise hand as Mr. +Friedlander answered him. + +The man stood up, giving Mr. Friedlander another small cigar and +giving two of them to Mr. Davidson. "Karadi blessings on you," he said. +"You'll be notified at work about your overtime, Mr. Friedlander." + +"When will we see it in the newspaper?" + +"Tomorrow. Afternoon edition. Karadi blessings." + +The man was gone. + + * * * * * + +"There," said Mr. Friedlander. "Go ahead and cry. It will do you good. +Cry all you want." + +"Young jackass," muttered Mr. Davidson. "Thought he'd never leave. And +don't you cry, young lady. Laugh. Sing. Jump for joy. I couldn't tell +you the great news about Freddie while that man was here." + +"We heard about Freddie," Mr. Friedlander said in a chill voice. "Will +you please go downstairs?" + +"You heard baloney, or you wouldn't be talking like that. Freddie ain't +dead." + +"What did you say?" Mr. Friedlander stood perfectly still, in the +center of the room, his back to the stove, trying to peer through the +window which by now had frosted over. Mrs. Friedlander had stopped +her crying, hands clasped in front of her, below her waist, in an +obsequious Oriental pose which the Karadi promoted. + +"I said Freddie ain't dead." + +"What are you talking about?" + +"Heard it on the short-wave, by God. Wouldn't kid about a thing like +this. I came busting in here to tell you, only that quisling was here +and I had to wait." + +"You mean it's you who owns the short-wave set downstairs?" demanded +Mr. Friedlander. "I never stopped on the landing. I always ran +upstairs. You see, I didn't want to know who owned the short-wave, who +listened to the--" + +"The free radio, other side of the Rockies? Go ahead, say it. Listen to +me, Mr. Friedlander. Those Karadi ain't here to stay. If you stopped to +think of it a minute, you'd understand like the rest of us." + +"The rest of you?" + +"Well, a lot of us, anyway. They don't need us. We have nothing they +want. They enjoy making us knuckle under, is all. Something in their +makeup, I don't know what. They won't stay here forever, though some of +us won't be around long enough to see them go." + +"What's all that got to do with...?" + +"With Freddie and the short-wave? He's been captured, Mr. Friedlander! +By the free folk. He's on their side now, the side all of us want to be +on but can't be. He's alive, you understand?" + +"You wouldn't just be saying this? You're sure?" + +"Wouldn't you trust the word of your own people, the people who saw +him come down by parachute, who took him in, got his name and beamed +it back here so you, his folks, wouldn't have to worry none? Well, +wouldn't you?" + +"Yes!" Mrs. Friedlander cried in a tremulous voice. "Oh, yes...." + +"Sensible girl," said Mr. Davidson. + +Walking to the window and wiping away a circle of frost with his hand, +Mr. Friedlander felt a spring in his step he hadn't felt for twenty +years, since the day the Karadi came swooping down from space and +caught the world in a tired breathing spell in World War III. Freddie +was alive--and safe. Freddie was free. He must tell everyone. He +must shout it now, to all the neighbors, and shout it again at work +tomorrow, and withdraw his announcement from the Karadi Newspaper and +a hundred other things. He lifted the warped window, with cardboard +replacing two of the shattered panes, and breathed in the crisp, cold +night air. "I'll visit the newspaper in the morning," he said. "Tell +them to forget all about the announcement." He turned around and faced +his wife and Mr. Davidson. "What are you crying for? Stop crying." + +"I'm so happy, Fred." + +"Maybe I can get down to the newspaper now and see their night man." + +"Hold on there," Mr. Davidson said. "Are you crazy or something, +young feller? Want to fit the noose around my neck yourself? Not just +me, but all the others. Think I'm the only one? There's Mr. and Mrs. +Peters, and the Schwartz's, the McDonalds, the Kopaks. You're just slow +catching on, that's all." + +"You mean they all have short-waves, all those people?" + +"That's exactly what I mean. We have to find freedom our own way. Oh, +we conform. We cry when we're supposed to, and laugh. But at night +we listen to the radio and learn some of the truth, so that when the +Karadi get bored with us and decide to leave, we can take our places in +a free world. Took me two years to build that short-wave out of spare +parts, but it was worth every minute." + +"What do you do when they come around hunting?" Mr. Friedlander asked. + +"Hide it, of course. Son, you're afraid of your own shadow." + +"I am not. I just didn't know." + +"For a time we were worried about you. Thought maybe you was a +quisling. Now I had to take the chance. I just had to tell you. Listen, +here's the thing. Here's what we'll do. We'll let the announcement +stick in the paper. Got to make them think we believe. Then we'll have +ourselves a real solemn funeral out to the graveyard near 92nd Street. +Know a preacher who'll wring every last tear out of all of us. I mean +all. We'll all go. The Kopaks, the Schwartz's, the Peters, everyone +who heard in on the short-wave about Freddie and how he's alive and +everything. The sadder we look, the happier we'll feel later on. Then +we'll have ourselves a real old fashioned celebration, like before the +Karadi came. Mr. McDonald says he has a bottle of real champagne he +was saving for when his girl Betty got married, but I talked him into +letting us use it. Son, we'll pull out all the stops. Of course, you +can't really get looped on an ounce or so of champagne, but we sure can +try! Well, see you at the funeral." + +And Mr. Davidson went downstairs, cackling and whistling the dirge from +Beethoven's Eroica. + + * * * * * + +"Well," said Mr. Friedlander to his wife, "what do you think?" + +"I think it's wonderful. That nice man, going to all that trouble." + +"I'm not so sure. What do we know about Mr. Davidson? Maybe he's lying. +Maybe he's--" + +"He wouldn't lie, not about a thing like that." + +"I know how you feel. I felt that way at first, too. Free and--well, +relaxed for the first time in so long I can't remember. But then I got +to thinking. What if he's senile? What if he imagined the whole thing? +It would be a sin to celebrate, with Freddie dead." + +"We could ask Mr. Peters, or the others. And Freddie's not dead!" + +"That's what you want to believe. It's what I want to believe, too." +Mr. Friedlander walked to the window again, where the pane was frosting +over once more, giving a ghostlike quality to the street, the lamps, +the facades of the other tenements, the snow-laden trees outside. He +wanted to believe. But he had wanted to believe, in his youth, that +the killing war would one day end. When it did, the Karadi had come, +with talk of peace--although with their invincible weapons they had +disarmed all the world's armies and, instead of rebuilding, had made a +shambles of our civilization. Every day the Karadi told lies and told +you to believe. And planted spies to see that you did. And visited +you at unexpected moments to see that you conformed. And trained your +children to fight against free people, free people who they said were +your enemies. And gave extra clothing rations to a spy, to a believer, +to a man in the Karadi image. + +"We can't ask the others," Mr. Friedlander said. "What if Mr. Davidson +was lying, or making it all up? You can't go around talking about +short-waves and things. It isn't safe." + +"We have to know!" + +"Do you want to be turned in as an undesirable? Is that what you want? +We already know. The Karadi told us." The more he spoke, the easier +it was to convince himself. You couldn't live with doubt. The Karadi +fostered doubt and taught you that: you had to avoid it. You had to +know. This is so, this is not so--if this other thing may or may not +be so, I don't want to talk about it. Alternative A or alternative B. +Simple. Concise. What did old Mr. Davidson know, anyway, listening to +his subversive radio? Why should the barbarians in the mountains tell +the truth any more than the Karadi or their agents? The barbarians are +our enemies. It's propaganda. Maybe Mr. Davidson is a saboteur for them. + +"Is that clear?" Mr. Friedlander demanded. "Is that quite, quite clear? +Cry if you want. Freddie is dead. Freddie is dead. Dead. You can't +believe all the wild stories you hear." + +Mrs. Friedlander was smiling at him through her tears, wiping them +away, assuming again the Oriental pose. "You believe what you want," +she said. "We won't celebrate. We won't pretend. We'll say Freddie +is dead. But I'll believe--what I believe. And I'm thankful to Mr. +Davidson." + +"So you can live in doubt all the rest of your life? For that you're +thankful?" + +"I'm thankful for a crumb when I expected nothing. Where are you +going?" + +Mr. Friedlander was buckling his worn overcoat and forcing his shoes +into wet overshoes. "Out for a walk," he said. "I want to think." + +"It's a cold night." + +"I don't care." + + * * * * * + +Outside, with the snow still falling, drifting down in unhurried +silence, he found himself hating Mr. Davidson. The man should +have minded his own business. Old meddler. He was a menace to the +community, too. Whose side was he on, anyway? A senile old man? An +agent provocateur for the barbarians in the western mountains? Was his +self-appointed mission in life to see to it that people like poor Mrs. +Friedlander never knew another moment of peace all the rest of their +lives? + +The short-wave radio--all lies. It had to be lies. If it weren't +lies you could understand nothing. Black is white or white is black. +Everyone saying something else. You don't know. You never know. + +He didn't want to start any trouble. He wasn't looking for trouble. +He was only a good, Karadi-fearing citizen who knew his place. But +Mr. Davidson had made a revelation to him. If all the others, if all +those people Mr. Davidson had named, chuckling over each name, taking +secret delight in each one as if he, the patriarch of the tenament had +converted them, one at a time or in groups, into clandestine outlaws, +if all those people were subversive, thought Mr. Friedlander, why +should he suffer along with them? Was it fair that he received the same +inadequate food, the same squalid lodging, the same menial jobs to +perform? He knew his place. + +But they had told him about Freddie--or Mr. Davidson, their spokesman, +had--and he owed them something for that, for the one brief moment +in which they had shoved back the snow, the grim cold winter, the +bleak building and the smell of turnips, as a curtain, and revealed +his own youth to him, sparkling with hope, with promise, with a life +unfulfilled. + +No! + +Even that had been unkind. Premeditated? His lot would be all the more +unpleasant for it. And Mrs. Friedlander's. They'd sealed her in a +half-mourning, half-hoping future. They'd ruined her whole life. + +He'd have to move, of course, with his wife. But perhaps they'd earn +the right to a better neighborhood. He walked up the six snow-covered +steps to the police station, went inside, sat down and started telling +the uniformed figure at the desk about the subversives in his building +who owned short-wave radios, starting with Mr. Davidson and going right +on down the list. He hoped the Karadi would come and take them away +before the funeral. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Cold Night for Crying, by Milton Lesser + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58790 *** |