Showing posts with label Thomas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thomas. Show all posts

Saturday, 29 May 2021

The Sixth Segment

 

 
Don’t Give up....

You Mustn’t Give Up....”

MULDER:

Scully? Why would he say that - 

"Don't give up"? 

Why would he say such a thing to you?


SCULLY:

I think that was clearly meant for you, Mulder.


MULDER:

He didn't say it to me. 

He said it to you


If Father Joe were The Devil, why would he say 

the opposite of what The Devil might say


Maybe that's The Answer. 

The Larger Answer.


SCULLY

What do you mean?


MULDER

Don't give up.






Personality as Hierarchy — 

and Capacity for Transformation

 

  How, then, is the personality that balances respect for social institutions and, equally, creative transformation to be understood? It is not so easy to determine, given the complexity of the problem. 

 

For that reason, we turn to stories

 

Stories provide us with a broad template. They outline a pattern specific enough to be of tremendous value, if we can imitate it, but general enough (unlike a particular rule or set of rules) to apply even to new situations. 

 

In stories, we capture observations of the ideal personality. 

 

We tell tales about success and failure in adventure and romance

 

Across our narrative universes, success moves us forward to what is better, to the promised land; failure dooms us, and those who become entangled with us, to the abyss. 

 

The Good moves us upward and ahead, and Evil drags us backward and down. 

 

Great stories are about characters in action, and so they mirror the unconscious structures and processes that help us translate the intransigent world of facts into the sustainable, functional, reciprocal social world of values.*

 

  The properly embodied hierarchy of values — including the value of conservatism and its twin, creative transformation — finds its expression as a personality, in narrative — an ideal personality. Every hierarchy has something at its pinnacle. 

 

It is for this reason that a story, which is a description of the action of a personality, has A Hero (and even if that someone is The Antihero, it does not matter : The Antihero serves the function of identifying The Hero through contrast, as The Hero is what The Antihero is most decidedly not). 

 

The Hero is The Individual at The Peak, The Victor, The Champion, The Wit, The Eventually Successful and DeservingUnderdog, The Speaker of Truth Under Perilous Circumstances, and more

 






[Cyberlab

(The Chess Board is in place.

Mr. CLEVER : 
There. That was easy. 
The Game has just started.
Doctor, why is there NO record of You 
ANYWHERE in the databanks of 
The Cyberiad? 

Oh, you're good.

Oh, you've been eliminating 
Yourself from History. 

You know you could 
be reconstructed by 
The HOLE YOU’VE LEFT.





[Ten Forward]

(Data is about to speak, then changes his mind) 

 

WORF:

Wait. What is it, Commander? 

 

DATA:

I am sorry to bother you,

but I have a question of a personal nature.

 

Do you have a moment? 

 

WORF:

...A Moment.

 
DATA:

I have heard you mention that you once experienced A Vision.

 

 

WORF:

Yes. When I was young my adoptive parents

arranged for me to partake in 

The Rite of MajQa. 

 

DATA:

I understand it involves deep meditation

in the lava caves of No'Mat.

 

That prolonged exposure to the heat

induces a hallucinatory effect. 

 

WORF:

Why are you asking me about this? 

 

 

DATA:

I have recently had an unusual experience,

which might be described as A Vision. 

 

WORF:

What happened? 

 

 

DATA:

An accident in Engineering shut down my cognitive functions

for a short period of time, 

yet I seemed to remain conscious.

 

I saw My Father. 

 

WORF:

You are very fortunate.

That is a powerful vision. 

 

 

DATA:

If it was A Vision,

I do not know how to proceed. 

 

WORF:

You must find its Meaning.

If it has anything to do with Your Father, 

you must learn all you can about it.

 

In the Klingon MajQa ritual,

there is nothing more important

than receiving a revelation 

about Your Father.

 

Your Father is a Part of You, always.

Learning about him 

teaches you about yourself.

 

That is why no matter

Where He Is or What He Has Done,

you must find him. 

 

DATA:

....but I am not looking for My Father(?) 

 

WORF:

.....Yes, of course.

 

Do not stop until you have

The Answer

 

DATA :

Thank you, Worf.

 

 

We know what it looks like -- 

We can make one.

 

 

[Zeos computer room]

 

(M.E.N.T.A.L.I.S. is a wreck of molten plastic.)

 

DOCTOR:

That was close.

 

ROMANA:

How did they manage to miss?

 

DOCTOR:

They weren't aiming at me,

they were aiming at that, the control centre,

like a scorpion stinging itself to death.

As soon as it sensed I was trying to interfere with the sequence,

it destroyed its own control centre.

 

It's mindless now,

clicking toward oblivion.

 

How long, K9?

 

K9:

Damage renders data unavailable.

 

DOCTOR:

(Thinks….)

The TARDIS!

 

ROMANA:

Come on, K9!

 

(They run for their lives.)

 

[Marshal's module]

 

PILOT: 

Within range, sir.


MARSHAL: 

Go in closer. As close as you dare.

(The Doctor, Romana and K9 enter the Shadow's lair and enter The TARDIS.)

 

[TARDIS]

 

The Doctor enters with 

Five of The Six Pieces of The Key to Time.

DOCTOR

Here, take a look at this.

ROMANA: 

Ah, you put the five pieces together. Good.

DOCTOR: 

Have you got the tracer?

ROMANA: 

Yes.

DOCTOR: 

Lock it in. Lock it.

 

ROMANA: 

Now what?

 

DOCTOR: 

Well, it was just an idea -- 

I thought if we had Five-Sixths 

of the pieces it might give us 

some power —

Obviously Guardian Technology 

doesn't work that way.


ROMANA: 

If only we had The Sixth Piece.


DOCTOR: 

Yeah — !!

Or a Sixth Piece...!!


ROMANA: 

What do you mean?


Pointing --


DOCTOR: 

What do you see there?


ROMANA: 

A Gap.


DOCTOR: 

Exactly. A GAP —  

The exact shape of The Sixth Piece.

 

ROMANA: 

Oh!

 

DOCTOR: 

We know what it looks like —

We can make one.

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

The Necessity of Balance

 

  Because doing what others do and have always done so often works, and because, sometimes, radical action can produce success beyond measure, the conservative and the creative attitudes and actions constantly propagate themselves. 

 

A functional social institution — a hierarchy devoted to producing something of value, beyond the mere insurance of its own survival — can utilize the conservative types to carefully implement processes of tried-and-true value, and the creative, liberal types to determine how what is old and out of date might be replaced by something new and more valuable. 

 

The balance between conservatism and originality might therefore be properly struck, socially, by bringing the two types of persons together. But someone must determine how best to do that, and that requires a wisdom that transcends mere temperamental proclivity. 


Because the traits associated with creativity, on the one hand, and comfort with the status quo, on the other, tend to be mutually exclusive, it is difficult to find a single person who has balanced both properly, who is therefore comfortable working with each type, and who can attend, in an unbiased manner, to the necessity for capitalizing on the respective forms of talent and proclivity. But the development of that ability can at least begin with an expansion of conscious wisdom: the articulated realization that conservatism is good (with a set of associated dangers), and that creative transformation—even of the radical sort—is also good (with a set of associated dangers). 


Learning this deeply—truly appreciating the need for both viewpoints—means at least the possibility of valuing what truly diverse people have to offer, and of being able to recognize when the balance has swung too far in one direction. 


The same is true of the knowledge of the shadow side of both. To manage complex affairs properly, it is necessary to be cold enough in vision to separate the power hungry and self-serving pseudoadvocate of the status quo from the genuine conservative; and the self-deceptive, irresponsible rebel without a cause from the truly creative. And to manage this means to separate those factors within the confines of one’s own soul, as well as among other people.

 

  And how might this be accomplished? First, we might come to understand consciously that these two modes of being are integrally interdependent. One cannot truly exist without the other, although they exist in genuine tension. This means, first, for example, that discipline—subordination to the status quo, in one form or another—needs to be understood as a necessary precursor to creative transformation, rather than its enemy. Thus, just as the hierarchy of assumptions that make up the structure that organizes society and individual perceptions is shaped by, and integrally dependent on, restrictions, so too is creative transformation. It must strain against limits. It has no use and cannot be called forth unless it is struggling against something. 

 

It is for this reason that The Great Genie, The Granter of Wishes — God, in a microcosm — is archetypally trapped in the tiny confines of a lamp and subject, as well, to the will of The Lamp’s current holder. Genie — genius — is the combination of possibility and potential, and extreme constraint.

 

  Limitations, constraints, arbitrary boundaries — rules, dread rules, themselves — therefore not only ensure social harmony and psychological stability, they make the creativity that renews order possible. What lurks, therefore, under the explicitly stated desire for complete freedom — as expressed, say, by the anarchist, or the nihilist — is not a positive desire, striving for enhanced creative expression, as in the romanticized caricature of the artist. It is instead a negative desire — a desire for the complete absence of responsibility, which is simply not commensurate with genuine freedom. 

 

This is the lie of objections to the rules. 

 

But “Down with Responsibility” does not make for a compelling slogan — being sufficiently narcissistic to negate itself self-evidently — while the corresponding “Down with the Rules” can be dressed up like a heroic corpse.

 

  Alongside the wisdom of true conservatism is the danger that the status quo might become corrupt and its corruption self-servingly exploited. Alongside the brilliance of creative endeavor is the false heroism of the resentful ideologue, who wears the clothes of the original rebel while undeservedly claiming the upper moral hand and rejecting all genuine responsibility. Intelligent and cautious conservatism and careful and incisive change keep the world in order. 

 

But each has its dark aspect, and it is crucial, once this has been realized, to pose the question to yourself: 

Are you the real thing, or its opposite? 

 

And the answer is, inevitably, that you are some of both — and perhaps far more of what is shadowy than you might like to realize. 

 

That is all part of understanding the complexity we each carry within us.

Monday, 26 October 2020

The King Has Cause to Call Upon Extraordinary Grace




The King is rehearsing His Speech, over-coming his stage fright, standing alone side-on to a full-length mirror in a White House anteroom to The Oval Office, awaiting admission to his audience with The Leader of The Free World

“It's an honor, Mr. President."
"Mr. President, I can't tell you what a great honor..."
“Hello, Mr. President, the honor...”


Momentarily crestfallen, he composes himself, turns to face his reflection , and Speaks into The Mirror
 

 
Did you know I had a Twin Brother, Mr. President?
Identical.


Jesse Garon Presley.
He was born 35 minutes before me. Stillborn.

And they... They put him in a box on the kitchen table
while Momma kept on going trying to push me out.
 Sometimes I wonder about that, you know.


What that 35 minutes must have been like for her.

The Happiest Moment and The Saddest Moment Life could possibly throw at you.

Sometimes I think, God felt guilty for her, so he gave me the luck that was meant for Two People.


Makes you think, you know.





“Dear President Nixon,

First, I would like to introduce myself — I am Elvis Presley, and I admire you, and have great respect for your office.

I talked to Vice President Agnew in Palm Springs three weeks ago and expressed my concern for Our Country. 

The drug culture, the hippie elements, the SDS, Black Panthers, etc. do not consider me as their enemy or as they call it The Establishment. 

I call it America and I love it. 

Sir, I can and will be of any service that I can to help The Country out. 

I have no concern or motives other than helping The Country out.”


THE KING :
Mr. President — This is my little angel.
Lisa Marie. She's two years old.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, she is a beautiful little girl.

THE KING :
Yes, sir. She's my pride and joy.
And this is my beautiful wife, Cilla.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, she is very charming.

BUD KROEG :
Mr. President.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Bud.

BUD KROEG :
Mr. Presley.

THE KING :
These M&Ms are great.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Good to hear, Mr. Presley.

THE KING :
You got some good fellas working for you, Mr. President.
My guys are outside.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Thank you.
So, as I really do need to be going we should probably get to what you want to...

THE KING :
These are some of my closest associates.
And contrary to what you may have heard, Mr. President, they are not part of any mafia.
That is just a crazy rumor started by nasty journalists.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
They love to make it up, don't they?
Last month, Look magazine made up some cockamamie drivel about how I broke into the Dean's office while I was at Duke.
You know, you give a man enough money and he'll say anything, you know.
 
They'll just ruin a man's reputation.
They don't give a good goddamn.

THE KING :
They just write what they want.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Hear, hear to that.
Everyone has a badge.

THE KING :
Mr. President, I've shown you these photos because I am deeply concerned about the direction our great nation is taking.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Yes, of course.
Now, I'm gonna need an autograph for my Julie.

THE KING :
That's your family there?
Those are some good looking kids.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, they really take after their mother.

THE KING :
Well, it takes two good lookin' folks to make a good lookin' baby, Mr. President.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Are you...
You're saying, as a gentleman, I'm good looking too?

THE KING :
Well, of course, Mr. President.
Everybody knows that.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, I...

THE KING :
Now, plainly speaking, sir, I want to get people to respect our country.
To respect our flag.
 
Because that's what's getting lost in our nation.
It bothers me to see young people burning flags and smoking dope.
 
And just because I don't smoke dope or grow a beard does that make me a straight? Or a square?
Because if it does, heck, I'll take being a straight or a square any day of the week.
 
The kids today are being brainwashed, Mr. President.
It's what they are listenin' to and what they are watchin'.
That's what's doing it to them.
 
Take that Woodstock for example.
What the heck was that?
 
I'll tell you what it was, it was an excuse to get naked, get high and roll around in the mud.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, I'm with you there.

KROEG :
Four, three, two, one... Mr. President, you have your meet and greet.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
No, not right now. Thank you.



KROEG :
But it's with the delegation...

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
I said it's fine.



KROEG :
But it's with the donors...

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
I said it can wait.
And Krogh, make sure that we get a picture with Mr. Presley and me.
Ollie's outside, he's ready for you.

THE KING :
No pictures.



KROEG :
Mr. Presley, it's standard for us.



THE KING :
I understand. But not today.
Now, if you don't mind...

May I continue?

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
By all means.

THE KING :
Thank you. I have it on very good authority that many of the so-called underground groups have been infiltrated by communists.
 
Yes, sir. And I find it downright anti-American.
Just like The Beatles.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
The Beatles. Well, I don't like them.

THE KING :
They are anti-American, possibly with communist leanings.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, just look at them.

THE KING :
Let's look at the facts, Mr. President.
After coming here and making all that money, they split back to England, start saying all this anti-American stuff, speaking against us in the press.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, some people think they can say anything.

THE KING :
Specifically about our policies in Southeast Asia, sir.
Did you know that?

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
I did not know that.

THE KING :
It was Lennon.
The kids think he's some kind of prophet.
And well... What I'm trying to say is, sir, they may not actually be in the employ of the communists, but if encouraging Revolution doesn't sound like subversive propaganda, I don't know what is.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, right. Yes.

THE KING :
See, I've been studying communist brainwashing techniques for over 10 years now.
And the drug culture, too, Mr. President.
And it's my belief that if we don't do something to handle this situation very quickly, it could very easily get outta hand.

Well, you wanna know why the hell the communists are so against drugs?
It's because they love the booze.
 
Especially the Russians. I've seen it.
You talk about "out of hand."
 
And that's why communists and the left-wingers are clinging to one another, because they're trying to destroy us, Elvis.

THE KING :
I know, sir. Good, honest Americans.
They hate it.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
They don't hate us, Elvis — they hate what we stand for.
I mean, you and me, we rose from nothing.
My pa worked in a grocery store.
Your father was a sharecropper, yes?

THE KING :
A whole slew of things, sir.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, I think we were both somewhat loners.
 
And look where I am today.
And look where you are.
 
Well, a lefty sees that, and instead of wanting to walk in our footsteps, why, they get jealous.
 
It brings all their failures up bubbling right in front of their faces and, well, so, of course they react like caged animals.
 
Because that's what they are.
Just animals.

THE KING :
I know, sir.
And I want to help to stop it.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well, I think that is just great.
Absolutely.
 
So, my boys were telling me something like a concert.
A telethon. A television special.

THE KING :
No, sir.
I want to go undercover.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Undercover?

THE KING :
Yes.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
You want to be an actual...
I'm sorry, you want to what?

THE KING :
I want to be an agent-at-large.
 
You see, if I can get a Federal Narcotics badge it is my belief that I could protect this nation from sliding into anarchy.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Well... I...

THE KING :
Let's say I could infiltrate a band or a hippie commune, as a spy or a double agent, something like that, only disguising myself as one of them, hiding my own true feelings.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD :
Yeah, I'm not sure how...

THE KING :
Let's say The Rolling Stones,  or the Grateful Dead or maybe even the Black Panthers.
Heck, I could probably slip from one group to the other without even being detected.
 
And then, just when they let their guard down, I'd bust 'em.
I'd bust 'em all.
 
Of course, I would have to be so deep undercover so that no one would know it was me.
 
But in order for that to happen, nobody...
I mean nobody, can know about this on the outside.
Just a select few.

You, of course, Mr. President...
And maybe Mr. Hoover.





Thursday, 1 October 2020

And The Gemini Killer was Born.




He felt at the kettle. Just warm. A few more minutes. He thought about Lucifer again, that being of unthinkable radiance. The Catholics said his nature was changeless. And so? Could he really have brought sickness and death to the world? Be the author of nightmarish evil and cruelty? It didn't make sense. Even old Rockefeller had handed out dimes now and then. He thought of the Gospels, all those people possessed. By what? Not fallen angels, he thought. Only goyim mix up devils with dybbuks. It's a joke. These were dead people trying to make a comeback. Cassius Clay can do it endlessly but not a poor dead tailor? 

Satan didn't run around invading living bodies; not even the Gospels said that, reflected Kinderman. Oh, yes, Jesus made a joke about it once, he conceded. The apostles had just come to him, breathless and full of themselves with their successes in casting out demons. Jesus nodded and kept a straight face as he told them, "Yes, I saw Satan falling like lightning from heaven." It was a wryness, a gentle pulling of the leg. But why lightning? Kinderman wondered. Why did Christ call Satan the "Prince of This World"?

A few minutes later, he made a cup of tea and took it up to his den. He closed the door softly, felt his way to the desk, and then turned on the light and sat down. He read the file.

The Gemini killings were confined to San Francisco and had spanned a range of seven years from 1964 to 1971, when the Gemini was killed by a rain of bullets while climbing a girder of the Golden Gate Bridge, where the police had entrapped him after countless failed attempts. During his lifetime he had claimed responsibility for twenty-six murders, each one savage and involving mutilations. The victims were both males and females, of random age, sometimes even children, and the city lived in terror, even though the Gemini's identity was known. The Gemini had offered it himself in a letter to the San Francisco Chronicle immediately after the first of his murders. 

He was James Michael Vennamun, the thirty-year-old son of a noted evangelist whose meetings had been televised nationally every Sunday night at ten o'clock. But the Gemini, in spite of this, could not be found, even with the help of the evangelist, who retired from public view in 1967. When finally killed, the Gemini's body fell into the river, and though days of dredging had failed to rum it up there was little doubt about his death. A fusillade of hundreds of bullets had hit his body. And the murders had then ceased.



Kinderman quietly turned the page. This section concerned the mutilations. Abruptly he stopped and stared at a paragraph. The hairs on his neck prickled up. Could this be? he thought. My God, it couldn't! And yet there it was. He looked up and breathed and thought for a while. Then he went on.

He came to the psychiatric profile, based largely on the Gemini's rambling letters and a diary he'd kept in his youth. The Gemini's brother, Thomas, was a twin. He was mentally retarded and lived in a trembling terror of darkness, even when others were around. He slept with a light on. The father, divorced, took little care of the boys, and it was James who parented and cared for Thomas.

Kinderman was soon absorbed in The Story.

With vacant, meek eyes Thomas sat at a table while James made more pancakes for him. Karl Vennamun lurched into the kitchen clad only in pajama bottoms. He was drunk. He was carrying a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey that was almost drained. He looked at James blearily. "What are you doing?" he demanded harshly.

"Fixing Tommy more pancakes, " said James. He was walking past his father with a plateful when Vennamun savagely struck his face with the back of his hand and knocked him to the floor.

"I can see that, you snotty little bastard, " snarled Vennamun. "I said no food for him today! He dirtied his pants!"

"He can't help it!" James protested. Vennamun kicked him in the stomach, then advanced on Thomas, who was shaking with fear.

"And you! You were told not to eat! Didn't you hear me?" There were dishes of food on the table, and Vennamun swept them to the floor with his hand. "You little ape, you'll learn obedience and cleanliness, damn you!" The evangelist pulled the boy upright with his hands and began to drag him toward a door that led outside. Along the way, he cuffed him. "You're like your mother! You're filth. You're a filthy Catholic bastard."

Vennamun dragged the boy outside and to the door of the cellar. The day was bright on the hills of the wooded Reyes Peninsula. Vennamun pulled open the cellar door. "You're going down in the cellar with the rats, goddamn you!"

Thomas started trembling and his large, doe eyes were shining with fright. He cried, "No! No, don't put me in the dark! Papa, please! Please—''

Vennamun slapped him and hurled him down the stairs.
Thomas cried out, "Jim! Jim!''

The cellar door was closed and bolted. "Yeah, the rats'll keep him busy," snarled Vennamun drunkenly.

The terrified screaming began.

Later, Vennamun tied his son James to a chair, and then sat and watched television and drank. At last he fell asleep. But James heard the shrieking throughout the night.

By daybreak, there was silence. Vennamun awakened, untied James, and then went outside and opened the cellar door. "You can come out now," he shouted down into the darkness. He got no reply. Vennamun watched as James ran down the stairs. Then he heard someone weeping. Not Thomas. James. He knew that his brother's mind was gone.

Thomas was permanently institutionalized in the San Francisco State Mental Hospital. James saw him whenever he could, and at the age of sixteen ran away from home and went to work as a packing boy in San Francisco. Each evening he went to visit Thomas. He would hold his hand and read children's storybooks to him. He would stay with him until he was asleep. This went on until one evening in 1964. It was a Saturday. James had been with Thomas all day.

It was nine p.m. Thomas was in bed. James was in a chair at his bedside, close to him, while a doctor checked Thomas' heart. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and smiled at James. "Your brother's doing just fine.''

A nurse put her head in the door and spoke to James. "Sir, I'm sorry, but visiting hours are over."

The doctor motioned James to remain in his chair, and then walked to the door. "Let me speak to you a moment, Miss Reach. No, out here in the hall. " They stepped outside. "It's your first day here, Miss Reach ?''

"Yes, it is."

"Well, I hope you're going to like it here,'' said the doctor.

"I'm sure I will."

"The young man with Tom Vennamun is his brother. I'm sure you couldn't miss it. "

"Yes, I noticed,'' said Keach.

"For years he's come faithfully every night. We allow him to stay until his brother falls asleep. Sometimes he stays the whole night. It's all right. It's a special case," said the doctor.

"Oh, I see."

"And, look, the lamp in his room. The boy is terrified of darkness. Pathologically. Never turn it off. I'm afraid for his heart. It's terribly weak. "

"I'll remember," said the nurse. She smiled.

The doctor smiled back. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then. Good night."

"Good night, Doctor." Nurse Keach watched him walk down the hall, and her smile immediately turned down to a scowl. She shook her head and muttered, "Dumb. "

In the room, James gripped his brother's hand. He had the storybook in front of him, but he knew all the words; he had said them a thousand times before: " 'Good night, little house, and good night, mouse. Good night, comb, and good night, brush. Good night, nobody. Good night, mush. And good night to the old lady whispering "hush.'' Good night, stars. Good night, air. Good night, noises everywhere.' " James closed his eyes for a moment, weary. Then he looked to see if Thomas was asleep. He wasn 't. He was staring up at the ceiling. James saw a tear rolling down from his eye.

Thomas stammered, "I l-l-l-love you, J-J-J-James. "

"I love you, Tom," his brother said softly. Thomas closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

After James left the hospital, Nurse Reach walked past the room. She stopped and came back. She looked in. She saw Thomas alone and asleep. She came into the room, turned off the lamp and then closed the door behind her when she left. "A special case,'' she muttered. She returned to her office and her charts.

In the middle of the night, a shriek of terror sounded in the hospital. Thomas had awakened. The shrieks continued for several minutes. Then the silence was abrupt. Thomas Vennamun was dead.

And the Gemini Killer was born.


Kinderman looked up at a window. It was dawn. He felt strangely moved by what he had read. Could he have pity for such a monster? He thought again of the mutilations. Vennamun's logo had been God's finger touching Adam's; thus always the severing of the index finger. And there was always the K at the start of one of the victims' names. Vennamun, Karl.

He finished the report: "Subsequent killings of initial K victims indicate proxy murders of the father, whose eventual dropout from public life suggests the Gemini's secondary motive, specifically destruction of the father's career and reputation by way of connection with the Gemini's crimes."

Kindernian stared at the file's last page. He removed his glasses and looked again. He blinked. He didn't know what to make of it.

He jumped to the telephone just as it rang."Yes, Kinderman here," he said softly. He looked at the time and felt afraid. He heard Atkins' voice. Then he didn't. Only buzzings. He felt cold and numb and sick to his soul.

Father Dyer had been murdered.


PART TWO


The greatest event in the history of the Earth,
now  taking place, may indeed be the gradual
discovery, by those with eyes to see, not merely
of Some Thing but of Some One at the peak
created by the convergence of the evolving
Universe upon itself. . . . There is only one Evil: Disunity.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin