“The Smoking Dog”
Chapter 34 of *The Book of Lies, Which Is Also Falsely Called Breaks, The Wanderings or Falsifications of the One Thought of Frater Perdurabo, Which Thought Is Itself Untrue, A Reprint with an additional commentary to each chapter*
Aleister Crowley
1875-1947 English

Each act of man is the twist and double of an hare.

Love and Death are the greyhounds that course him.

God bred the hounds and taketh His pleasure in the sport.

This is the Comedy of Pan, that man should think he hunteth, while those hounds hunt him.

This is the Tragedy of Man when facing Love and Death he turns to bay. He is no more hare, but boar.

There are no other comedies or tragedies.

Cease then to be the mockery of God; in savagery of love and death live thou and die!

Thus shall His laughter be thrilled through with Ecstasy.

Commentary

The title is explained in the note.

The chapter needs no explanation; it is a definite point of view of life, and recommends a course of action calculated to rob the creator of his cruel sport.

Note

This chapter was written to clarify Chi-epsilon-psi-iota-delta, of which it was the origin. FRATER PERDURABO perceived this truth, or rather the first half of it, comedy, at breakfast at “Au Chien qui Fume”.

Three-Line Story
Felix Feneon
1861-1944 French

Abandoned by Delorce, Cecilia Ward refused to take him back except in marriage. The stipulation seemed indecent to him so he stabbed her.

“The War Lovers Among Us”
Art Kramer
American

I remember the day I discovered the existence of war lovers. We were waiting to take off on a mission. Start engines was set for 08:30. At 08:15 we had gotten two yellow flares; one hour delay. Taylor (waist radio gunner), stretched out on the concrete hard stand under Willie's belly and using his chest pack as a pillow, attempted to nap. Henderson (turret armament gunner) was jogging around Willie. He was a fitness freak. Greigo (tail engineer gunner) sat off by himself. I pulled out my sectional map and began to memorize the route.

At 09:15 two more yellow flares. Another hour's delay. Taylor mumbled something about being here all day. Henderson said why the hell don't they either let us go or scrub the damned mission? Monson (co-pilot) shook his head and said, "Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait." The sun was rising in the sky and it was getting warm. Paul (pilot) peeled off his leather A-2 flight jacket and tossed it on top of his backpack lying on the concrete. We had been told at briefing that the target area was socked in and there might be delays waiting for it to clear. These were the delays. 10:15: two more yellow flares. A jeep came by. The driver said the target was still socked in. Would be informed of the situation as it developed. We thanked him and went back to the boredom of waiting.

11:00. Red flare. Mission scrubbed. Paul said he was going to find a poker game. Paul loved his poker. Taylor and Henderson said they were going into town. They were good friends and always bummed around together. The big 2-½ ton 6x6 truck that came by to pick up crews was just rolling up. It held three crews and two were already inside. We piled in clumsily, juggling our gear in the process. The truck rolled toward headquarters area. From the back came a voice, "Damn, damn, damn. Why the hell do they scrub these missions? We coulda gone, the overcast woulda broken. Damn." I turned to the guy next to me and said, "What's bugging him?" The guy shook his head in despair. "He's nuts. He's got a screw loose. That guy just can't fly enough. He flew yesterday and was off today so he volunteered to fill in for a grounded pilot. He does that a lot. He is on his second tour of duty. Finished his 65 missions and volunteered for another tour. I guess he now has something around 90 missions. More or less." Then he mumbled to himself, "They oughta lock that guy up. Who the hell volunteers to fly missions when you don't have to? Tell me that. Can you tell me that? Can you?"

By now the truck stopped and we all piled out. I dumped my stuff in our tent and, without waiting for Paul or Bob, headed for the officers club.

I chose a stool in the center of the bar and started nursing a Scotch. In about a half hour that guy who couldn't get enough flying came in a hopped on a stool about two stools way. I gave a him a non-committal "Hi." He said, "Damn. I hate waiting and waiting and then getting scrubbed, I hate that more than anything." I pointed out to him that the target for today was Koblenz, a bad deal at any time and in any weather. He turned to me and scowled. He didn't like my answer at all. And he showed it. He hissed, "I hate Koblenz. We took a lot of losses there. We gotta get back at them. Today was the perfect day. I know it. I could feel it in my bones. We shoulda gone, we shoulda gone, damn it we shoulda gone."

I had no words. That guy in the truck was right. This guy loved war. He was a war lover. But there was an element of wild irrationality to the guy. I had heard the breed existed but up to that moment I never met one, talked to one or realized the severity of the commitment. As time went on we flew many more missions and I made it a point to keep an eye on him. He was euphoric before missions and even more euphoric after missions and somewhat depressed when the weather kept us on the ground. And he enjoyed talking about the missions after they were over. After a while I avoided him like the plague. I noticed others did too. He remains firmly fixed in my mind as a breed of man somewhat apart from the rest of us.

“The Leopard and the Deer”
Chapter 19 of *The Book of Lies, Which Is Also Falsely Called Breaks, The Wanderings or Falsifications of the One Thought of Frater Perdurabo, Which Thought Is Itself Untrue, A Reprint with an additional commentary to each chapter*
Aleister Crowley
1875-1947 English

The spots of the leopard are the sunlight in the glade; pursue thou the deer stealthily at thy pleasure.

The dappling of the deer is the sunlight in the glade; concealed from the leopard do thou feed at thy pleasure.

Resemble all that surroundeth thee; yet be Thyself—and take thy pleasure among the Living.

This is that which is written—Lurk!—in The Book of The Law.

Commentary

19 is the last Trump, “The Sun”, which is the representative of God in the Macrocosm, as the Phallus is in the Microcosm.

There is a certain universality and adaptability among its secret powers. The chapter is taken from Rudyard Kipling's “Just So Stories”.

The Master urges his disciples to a certain holy stealth, a concealment of the real purpose of their lives; in this way making the best of both worlds. This counsels a course of action hardly distinguishable from hypocrisy; but the distinction is obvious to any clear thinker, though not altogether so to Frater P.

“Snoopy's Novel”
Charles M. Schulz
1922-2000 American

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night
by Snoopy

Part I

It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a shot rang out! A door slammed. The maid screamed.

Suddenly, a pirate ship appeared on the horizon!

While millions of people were starving, the king lived in luxury. Meanwhile, on a small farm in Kansas, a boy was growing up.

Part II

A light snow was falling, and the little girl with the tattered shawl had not sold a violet all day.

At that very moment, a young intern at City Hospital was making an important discovery. The mysterious patient in Room 213 had finally awakened. She moaned softly.

Could it be that she was the sister of the boy in Kansas who loved the girl with the tattered shawl who was the daughter of the maid who had escaped from the pirates? The intern frowned.

“Stampede!” the foreman shouted, and forty thousand head of cattle thundered down on the tiny camp. The two men rolled on the ground grappling beneath the murderous hooves. A left and a right. A left. Another left and right. An uppercut to the jaw. The fight was over. And so the ranch was saved.

The young intern sat by himself in one corner of the coffee shop. He had learned about medicine, but more importantly, he had learned something about life.

THE END

“Home for Christmas Day”
from “Ghost of Christmas Past”
Cliff Heck
American

“You should have been here yesterday,” the Trailways agent sighed. “Today the bus to Pullman and Lewiston is completely full. There's another bus tomorrow at eleven...”

“Tomorrow?” I echoed. “Tomorrow is Christmas Day.”

“Yes, that's why the bus is so full today,” the agent nodded.

“But I want to be home for Christmas Day,” I insisted.

“We're completely full, everyone has checked in so there's not even the possibility of a standby seat,” the clerk said again. “Personally, I'd let you sit in the stairwell, but the regulations won't let us.”

“Great!” I snapped. “I spent last Christmas alone in Denver, and now I'm going to spend this Christmas Eve in Spokane.”

“Excuse me,” some old guy spoke up from where he had been sitting listening to our conversation. “Why don't you give the airman my seat? I'll take tomorrow's bus.”

“Are you sure?” the agent asked.

“I once ran into a veteran of the Great War, who gave up his seat on the last train to London so that I wouldn't miss my ship home, which meant I could have Christmas with my family for the first time in four years,” the old codger said. “That was, what, nineteen years ago, and I had almost forgotten about it. Give him my seat, I'll go tomorrow.”

I was dumbfounded. “Sir, I can't ask you to give up your seat...”

He held up his hand and said, “That's almost exactly what I said to him, word for word. So I will say what he said: 'I must insist.'”

“And what was your reply?” I asked.

“Very well, and someday I will do the same for someone else.”

“It's a deal,” I said, accepting his ticket.

“The Pequod Meets the Delight”
Chapter 131 of *Moby-Dick; or, The Whale*
Herman Melville
1819-1891 American

The intense Pequod sailed on; the rolling waves and days went by; the life-buoy-coffin still lightly swung; and another ship, most miserably misnamed the Delight, was descried. As she drew nigh, all eyes were fixed upon her broad beams, called shears, which, in some whaling-ships, cross the quarter-deck at the height of eight or nine feet; serving to carry the spare, unrigged, or disabled boats.

Upon the stranger's shears were beheld the shattered, white ribs, and some few splintered planks, of what had once been a whale-boat; but you now saw through this wreck, as plainly as you see through the peeled, half-unhinged, and bleaching skeleton of a horse.

"Hast seen the White Whale?"

"Look!" replied the hollow-cheeked captain from his taffrail; and with his trumpet he pointed to the wreck.

"Hast killed him?"

"The harpoon is not yet forged that ever will do that," answered the other, sadly glancing upon a rounded hammock on the deck, whose gathered sides some noiseless sailors were busy in sewing together.

"Not forged!" and snatching Perth's levelled iron from the crotch, Ahab held it out, exclaiming--"Look ye, Nantucketer; here in this hand I hold his death! Tempered in blood, and tempered by lightning are these barbs; and I swear to temper them triply in that hot place behind the fin, where the White Whale most feels his accursed life!"

"Then God keep thee, old man--see'st thou that"--pointing to the hammock--"I bury but one of five stout men, who were alive only yesterday; but were dead ere night. Only THAT one I bury; the rest were buried before they died; you sail upon their tomb." Then turning to his crew--"Are ye ready there? place the plank then on the rail, and lift the body; so, then--Oh! God"--advancing towards the hammock with uplifted hands--"may the resurrection and the life--"

"Brace forward! Up helm!" cried Ahab like lightning to his men.

But the suddenly started Pequod was not quick enough to escape the sound of the splash that the corpse soon made as it struck the sea; not so quick, indeed, but that some of the flying bubbles might have sprinkled her hull with their ghostly baptism.

As Ahab now glided from the dejected Delight, the strange life-buoy hanging at the Pequod's stern came into conspicuous relief.

"Ha! yonder! look yonder, men!" cried a foreboding voice in her wake. "In vain, oh, ye strangers, ye fly our sad burial; ye but turn us your taffrail to show us your coffin!"

“Sarcastic Socialization Tips(tm)”
Michael McGeachie (Mike McGeachie)
1976- American

1. The Tag-Along

Everyone knows that one-on-one dates are stressful, awkward, and socially difficult situations. Don't let your friends fall prey to these maladies! Save them the embarrassment! Sometimes, your friend won't realize that he or she is in for trouble, so you'll have to slyly invite yourself:

You: "I got nothing. What are you doing tonight?"
Friend: "I'm going out with Mr./Miss X."
You: "Really?! You two were getting along well at the party last week. Where are you going?"
Friend: "Oleana. For dinner."
You: "Really? That's such a coincidence! I've always wanted to try that place. I'll meet you there."

2. Polite Queuing

If you're arriving late on the scene, chances are your brethren-in-arms have already figured out who are the nicest people to talk to. So they'll probably all be forming a half circle around him or her. But one person can only reasonably entertain four or five people at a time, so what are you, the sixth or seventh suitor, supposed to do? Luckily, it's ok to wait in line in these situations, and you'll get your turn eventually.

You: "Pardon me, are you in line?"
Speaker #6: "Yeah, I might be next, someone just excused himself/herself to get another drink."
You: "Excellent! Fast turn-over tonight. I think I'll mentally prepare a Fictitious Ex story for when my turn arrives!"

3. Fictitious Ex

If you find yourself talking with someone who doesn't seem very interested, it's probably because they're misvaluing you along the conventional lines of money/status/looks/wit. A clever way to hint at your relationship potential is to mention your Ex, and how much cooler/richer/smarter/hotter they are than normal people. This implies that if someone as elegant/studly/dangerous/brilliant as your Ex dated you, the person you're talking with now should be thankful you deign to give them the time of day.

Speaker #1: "Yeah. I need to get up early. I have to go."
You: "You know, that's really funny cause my Ex the [Calvin Klein underwear model / heroic fireman / Harvard neuroscience post-doc] was also an early riser."
Speaker #1: "Oh really? Tell me more!"

This kind of lie is much easier to get away with than lies about your own wealth/job/knowledge/physique.

4. Overhear Maneuver

Any conversation can be about you, even if you're not taking part until the end. Suppose you walk past people talking, and you hear this:

Speaker #1, to Speaker #2: "My sister is ill. The doctors say they don't know what she has. My family is distraught."
You: "Did I just hear you say 'My Sister'? Cause, that's such a coincidence! I think chicks are _hot_!"

Make sure to allude to "hot chicks" rather than the more subtle "attractive women" here. Remember: Subtlety is for the French; Audacity is for the American!

5. The Dumb-Down

This trick can be used when the conversation turns toward something you don't understand. Use the Dumb-Down to bring it back to where everyone can participate. Nobody likes exclusive conversations, and recognizing this will demonstrate that you have _everyone's_ interest in mind.

Speaker #1: "The whole Derridean enterprise is esoteric rhetoric for the ivory-tower demagogue."
You: "Enterprise? What does that mean? Is that even a word? Oh, wait, are you talking about Star Trek? Cause that show was neat! Now I remember, the Enterprise was the ship. Were the Derrideans the fish-looking people?"

Combine this tactic with the Overhear Maneuver for extra style points.

“Your toothpaste, floss and deodorant are aligned”
Michael McGeachie (Mike McGeachie)
1976- American

Remember in 2003, there was this big cosmological confluence of planets or stars or something? Some kind of event where the nearby planets all lined up from our point of view, on Earth, and then starting at 7pm or so you could see this big bright star in the sky, sorta under the moon. I think it lasted about a week. And that's pretty neat I suppose, and only occurs once every billion years or something, and that would be impressive, if, of course, I'd ever looked at the sky before to know what I was or wasn't seeing. But maybe that's not my fault. If there wasn't all this pesky infrastructure and architecture and street lights obscuring the sky, maybe I'd have seen it once before. I can imagine cavemen, from a 70s B-movie, having a much less encumbered view of the night sky, and perhaps learning to recognize certain patterns of lights up there, that came out every night. To them, this sort of thing must have been magnificent.

Maybe I can relate to what that must have been like, by comparison with a similar experience I had. Early last week, you see, I ran out of toothpaste, dental floss, and deodorant all on the same day. And at first I didn't realize what I was witnessing, because I was pretty confident that remembering I was out of everything would be easier than remembering which thing it was I was out of, when next I was shopping, and this lightened my mood and distracted me somewhat. But then I thought about the cycles I was witnessing: I must run out of toothpaste every 12-14 weeks, and dental floss sooner, and similarly deodorant must have its own harmonic cycle, but somehow, on this particular night, they had all aligned. The odds against it must have been astronomical. But yet the patterns of use and refilling of tubes and containers that greet me each night, composing the pastel background in the portrait of my quotidian routine, had shown me their inner harmony. Each separate immutable cycle had, somehow, mystically, come together in the Grand Cosmic Dance of the Toiletries. And this, I suspected, would have little impact on the stargazing Cavepeople I imagined. But who cares what they think anyway? Cause see what I think of your stars? Not much, that's for sure. Yeah. So we're even now, Cavepeople.

“Parable”
Wislawa Szymborska
1923- Polish
translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

Some fishermen pulled a bottle from the deep. It held a piece of paper, with these words: "Somebody save me! I'm here. The ocean cast me on this desert island. I am standing on the shore waiting for help. Hurry! I'm here!"

"There's no date. I bet it's already too late anyway. It could have been floating for years," the first fisherman said.

"And he doesn't say where. It's not even clear which ocean," the second fisherman said.

"It's not too late, or too far. The island Here is everywhere," the third fisherman said.

They all felt awkward. No one spoke. That's how it goes with universal truths.

“The Cumberland”
from *Historic Poems and Ballads*
edited by Rupert S. Holland
American

Early in 1862 a war-ship made her appearance at Hampton Roads, off Fortress Monroe, in Virginia, which was destined to change the naval battles of the future. The vessel was a Confederate ironclad called the Merrimac. An old ship had been altered by having a wedge-shaped prow of cast-iron project about two feet in front of the bow, and covering a wooden roof which sloped to the water-line with two iron plates of armor. A battery of ten guns was placed inside the ironclad. So constructed, it was thought that the new type of war-ship could readily destroy the old-fashioned Union frigates, and herself escape without injury.

Five Union ships, the fifty gun frigate Congress, the twenty-four gun sloop Cumberland, and the frigates St. Lawrence, Roanoke, and Minnesota, lay near Newport News on march 8, 1862, when about noon the new ship Merrimac suddenly appeared from the James River. The three nearest frigates, believing they could easily defeat the stranger, immediately slipped their cables, but, as all were of deep draft, shortly grounded in shallow water. The two other Union ships, together with the shore batteries, opened fire upon the strange black vessel that looked like a crocodile or some unknown sea-monster. The their surprise the shot bounced off the sloping back of the ironclad like rubber balls, and seemed to do no damage.

Lieutenant George Upham Morris was in command of the Cumberland, and as he saw the strange ship advancing to attack him he ordered broadsides of shot and shell poured at her. The heavy fire had no effect. The monster steamed on, and rammed her iron prow into the wooden side of the Cumberland. The frigate sank in fifty-five minutes, carrying down officers and crew, one hundred and twenty-five in all. Her flag was still flying as she sank, and her guns fired even when the water had reached the gunwales.

The Merrimac then turned to the Congress, which had made for the shore, and riddled her with shots until she caught on fire, and an exploding powder-magazine destroyed her. The Merrimac finally retired at nightfall to the shelter of the Confederate batteries, having spread consternation through the Union fleet.

Next morning, however, when the victorious Merrimac steamed out to destroy the three remaining frigates, she found that a tiny vessel named the Monitor had arrived at Hampton Roads over night, and was ready to meet her. This Monitor showed only a thin edge of surface above the water-line, and an iron turret revolved in sight, from which two guns could be fired in any direction. As the Northern papers said, this ship looked like a "cheese-box on a raft."

The Goliath of a Merrimac advanced to meet the David of a Monitor, and a three hours' battle followed. Neither could force the other to surrender, but finally the larger ironclad began to leak and had to withdraw, leaving the little Monitor in possession of the Roads.

This marked the beginning of the change from wooden ships-of-war to ironclads.

“The Battle of New Orleans”
from *Historic Poems and Ballads*
edited by Rupert S. Holland
American

At the same time that British armies were attacking Washington and Baltimore and a British squadron fighting that of Commodore Perry on Lake Erie in the War of 1812, England was fitting out a secret expedition to sail from Jamaica and land in Louisiana. Fifty British ships carried 7,000 British soldiers across the Gulf of Mexico to the channel near the entrance of Lake Borgne, approaching the small city of New Orleans midway between the Mississippi River and Mobile Bay. The fleet anchored there, and easily defeated a few American gunboats, landed their army on an island at the mouth of the Pearl River. They intended to march on New Orleans and capture it by surprise.

Andrew Jackson, a major-general in the American army, had been sent to defend the South from invasion. He reached New Orleans early in December, 1814, and at once began to recruit volunteers. All who would fight the enemy were welcomed to his camp, free negroes were enrolled, convicts were released to become soldiers, the lieutenants of a freebooter named Jean Lafitte, who had made his headquarters at Barataria, and many of his men who had been captured, were freed to join the army. Jackson strengthened the forts of the city and made every preparation to receive the enemy. Five thousand effective fighting men were soon under his command, less than one thousand of whom were soldiers in the regular army.

When the British finally appeared, it was they, and not the Americans, who were surprised. Jackson attacked them as soon as they were in sight, December 23, 1814, and checked their advance. He then entrenched his little force opposite the British, and had them well sheltered by the time the enemy had prepared to give battle. Meantime the British general, Pakenham, had been waiting for larger cannon and reinforcements.

On January 8, 1815, the British advanced, planning to carry the American lines by storm. The British had 10,000 veteran troops, the Americans less than half that number, and most of these raw backwoodsmen. But Jackson's men were born to the use of the rifle, and their firing was wonderfully steady and accurate. The British had to advance over a wide, bare plain, and the American batteries ploughed through their ranks, while the riflemen met them with a raking fire. The veteran English fought with the utmost bravery, the Highlanders flung themselves again and again at the entrenchments, and soldiers who had fought under Wellington in Spain and with Pakenham at Salamanca charged at the blazing line. Pakenham and many of his highest officers were killed, and the British army was finally forced to retreat. They had lost over two thousand men, while the Americans were reported to have lost eight killed and thirteen wounded. It was an overwhelming victory for Andrew Jackson and his volunteers.

The British returned to their ships and sailed away. Neither side knew that a treaty of peace had been signed at Ghent in Brussels two weeks earlier, and that the battle of New Orleans had been fought after the war had ended.

“Gelert’s Grave”
inscription on a gravestone in United Kingdom, Wales, Beddgelert
anonymous
late 1700’s British

In the 13th Century, Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, had a palace at Beddgelert. One day he went hunting without Gelert “The Faithful Hound” who was unaccountably absent. On Llewelyn’s return, the truant stained and smeared with blood, joyfully sprang to meet his master. The prince alarmed hastened to find his son, and saw the infant’s cot empty, the bedclothes and floor covered with blood. The frantic father plunged his sword into the hound’s side thinking it had killed his heir. The dog’s dying yell was answered by a child’s cry. Llewelyn searched and discovered his boy unharmed. But near by lay the body of a mighty wolf which Gelert had slain, the prince filled with remorse is said never to have smiled again.

He buried Gelert here.

The spot is called Beddgelert.

“Interview with a Lemming”
James Thurber
1894-1961 American

The weary scientist, tramping through the mountains of northern Europe in the winter weather dropped his knapsack and prepared to sit on a rock.

"Careful, brother," said a voice.

"Sorry," murmured the scientist, noting with some surprise that a lemming which he had been about to sit on had addressed him. "It is a source of considerable astonishment to me," said the scientist, sitting down beside the lemming, "that you are capable of speech."

"You human beings are always astonished," said the lemming, "when any other animal can do anything you can. Yet there are many things animals can do that you cannot, such as stridulate, or chirr, to name just one. To stridulate, or chirr, one of the minor achievements of the cricket, your species is dependent on the intestines of sheep and the hair of the horse."

"We are a dependent animal," admitted the scientist.

"You are an amazing animal," said the lemming.

"We have always considered you rather amazing, too," said the scientist. "You are perhaps the most mysterious of creatures."

"If we are going to indulge in adjectives beginning with 'm,'" said the lemming sharply, "let me apply a few to your species--murderous, maladjusted, maleficent and muffle-headed."

"You find our behavior as difficult to understand as we do yours?"

"You, as you would say, said it," said the lemming. "You kill, you mangle, you torture, you imprison, you starve each other. You cover the nurturing earth with cement, you cut down elm trees to put up institutions for people driven insane by the cutting down of elm trees, you--"

"You could go on all night like that," said the scientist, "listing our sins and shames."

"I could go on all night and up to four o'clock tomorrow afternoon," said the lemming. "It just happens that I have made a lifelong study of the self-styled higher animal. Except for one thing, I know all there is to know about you, and a singularly dreary, dolorous and distasteful store of information it is, too, to use only adjectives that begin with 'd.'"

"You say you have made a lifelong study of my species--" began the scientist.

"Indeed I have," broke in the lemming. "I know that you are cruel, cunning and carnivorous, sly, sensual and selfish, greedy, gullible and guileful--"

"Pray don't wear yourself out," said the scientist, quietly. "It may interest you to know that I have made a lifelong study of lemmings, just as you have made a lifelong study of people. Like you I have found but one thing about my subject which I don't understand."

"And what is that?" asked the lemming.

"I don't understand," said the scientist, "why you lemmings all rush down to the sea and drown yourselves."

"How curious," said the lemming. "The one thing I don't understand is why you human beings don't."

“They're Made Out Of Meat”
Terry Bisson
1942- American

"They're made out of meat."

"Meat?"

"Meat. They're made out of meat."

"Meat?"

"There's no doubt about it. We picked up several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, and probed them all the way through. They're completely meat."

"That's impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?"

"They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don't come from them. The signals come from machines."

"So who made the machines? That's who we want to contact."

"They made the machines. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Meat made the machines."

"That's ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You're asking me to believe in sentient meat."

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they're made out of meat."

"Maybe they're like the orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage."

"Nope. They're born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn't take long. Do you have any idea what's the life span of meat?"

"Spare me. Okay, maybe they're only part meat. You know, like the weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside."

"Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads, like the weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They're meat all the way through."

"No brain?"

"Oh, there's a brain all right. It's just that the brain is made out of meat! That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"So ... what does the thinking?"

"You're not understanding, are you? You're refusing to deal with what I'm telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat."

"Thinking meat! You're asking me to believe in thinking meat!"

"Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal! Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start all over?"

"Omigod. You're serious then. They're made out of meat."

"Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed made out of meat. And they've been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years."

"Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?"

"First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the Universe, contact other sentiences, swap ideas and information. The usual."

"We're supposed to talk to meat."

"That's the idea. That's the message they're sending out by radio. 'Hello. Anyone out there. Anybody home.' That sort of thing."

"They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?"

"Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat."

"I thought you just told me they used radio."

"They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat, it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat."

"Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?"

"Officially or unofficially?"

"Both."

"Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing."

"I was hoping you would say that."

"It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?"

"I agree one hundred percent. What's there to say? 'Hello, meat. How's it going?' But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?"

"Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can't live on them. And being meat, they can only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact."

"So we just pretend there's no one home in the Universe."

"That's it."

"Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you probed? You're sure they won't remember?"

"They'll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we're just a dream to them."

"A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat's dream."

"And we marked the entire sector unoccupied."

"Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?"

"Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again."

"They always come around."

"And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone..."

the end